Harry's Rules

by Michael R. Davidson

  Wednesday dawned with a lowering sky that promised to dampen the joie de vivre of the City of Light, and a gray afternoon found me once again with a clearly preoccupied Volodya, although nothing he said betrayed a reason. I ascribed his mood to avuncular concern.

  Volodya waved a careless hand toward a manila envelope on the table between us. “These are the instructions for the contact in Vienna. They are fairly straightforward, and you should have no trouble.”

  “Who's my contact?”

  A twinkle appeared in his eye as Volodya’s dark mood lifted momentarily. “Don’t worry. You won’t have any trouble recognizing Sasha. Just be at the meeting site on time and remember the parole.”

  Solemnity settled over him again.

  “Are you certain you want to go through with this, Harry? It’s been a long time since you last saw Stankov. A lot could have changed, and now there has been a death.”

  “It’s too late now. I’ll do this, and then I’m through with it all. I’ve had it with the bastards in Washington.”

  “I’m not worried as much about the bastards in Washington as I am about the bastards you may find in Vienna. Promise me that you will be very careful.” He clamped both hands around the arms of his chair and heaved himself with a grunt to his feet.

  I embraced him and said, “Don’t worry, old friend. I'll be passing back this way in a few days. Keep another bottle of Stoli on ice.”

  *****

  Volodya ushered the American to the door, where he embraced him and planted a kiss on each cheek. His eyes as he watched his friend descend the stairs were crinkled with worry. He prayed he had made the right decision.

  *****

  The next day I caught the mid-morning TGV fast train out of the Gare de Lyon for the three hour ride to Geneva. I would not go directly to Vienna, and in any event did not plan to travel by air. Flight manifests are too readily available, too easy to check, and thanks to the lack of official support, I carried no alias documents. I would stick to ground transportation across porous European borders. It would take more time, but it guaranteed a lower profile.

  Unable to resist the temptation, given the fact that my humidor was practically empty, I took advantage of the stopover in Geneva to renew my acquaintance with Gerard et Fils, my favorite cigar shop, located on the spacious lobby floor of the Noga Hilton Hotel beside Lake Geneva. As usual, I was offered a cigar of my choice and a small glass of fine single malt scotch, in this case a peaty Lagavulin.

  I spent a comfortable hour chatting with the proprietor before returning to the station where I purchased a First Class ticket for the overnight train to Vienna.

  *****

  Early the next morning I walked out of the Peterhoff Train Station into the inevitable freezing winter drizzle of the Austrian capital, a city with a reputation for music, pastry, coffee, and nosy little old ladies with umbrellas. I tried to remember a single sunny day I’d spent in Vienna but failed. If it wasn’t raining or snowing, minute particles of water hung suspended in the air creating a mist that hangs over the city like a threadbare eiderdown quilt. Vienna was my least favorite European capital. It probably didn’t deserve my opprobrium, but I simply did not like the joyless Austrians who wished they were German but couldn’t quite measure up.

  I turned up my collar against the cold and headed for the taxi queue. A short ride took me to the Opern Ring. My destination was a small pension on Walfischgasse that lay a few blocks away.

  I slung the strap of my single bag over my shoulder and trudged through the gray morning past the ornate opera house where I’d once treated myself to a presentation of Tchaikovsky’s “Sleeping Beauty” that provided my only pleasant memory of the city. Across the street the elegant facade of the Sacher Hotel, still monochrome in the tenacious gloom, beckoned temptingly, and I promised myself a slice of Sachertorte before I left.

  The pension was considerably beneath the exalted level of Vienna’s best known hotel. Walfischgasse is a dark, narrow street, not much more than an alley that connects the popular Kaerntner Strasse pedestrian shopping street with Schwarzenberg Strasse to the East.

  The weathered door with its peeling green paint opened onto a steep wooden stairway leading up to the reception desk on the second floor. The place did not fit into such a posh section of the city, and I wondered how it had survived.

  A man of indeterminate age, as drab as the decor, sat behind the desk behind the morning paper. I addressed the paper in German. “I’d like a room, please, with a bath, if possible.”

  The desk clerk lowered the paper and appraised my expensive Burberry trenchcoat. His eyes widened slightly though the rest of his face retained its bored expression. “We have a room with a shower, but the toilet is down the hall.” His voice was cracked, like the plaster on the walls.

  “That’ll be satisfactory.”

  “How long will you be staying, mein Herr?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  The clerk shrugged indifferently and thrust a bony hand across the counter palm up.

  “Documents, bitte.”

  I made no move to comply. In popular spy fiction the hero always has a ready supply of nifty alias documents, but I was on my own. After the trouble I had taken to cover my tracks, I had no intention of advertising my presence either to the local police or to the local Russian Intelligence rezidentura that undoubtedly was supplementing some cop's salary in exchange for a copy of the official list of guests that every hotel was obliged to maintain. There were always cops who would do this, sometimes for several different intelligence services at once. Intelligence analysts then check the register against their own watch lists. Dinosaur stuff.

  I spread several high denomination bills across the counter.

  “Why don’t I just pay you a week in advance to guarantee the room? If I leave sooner, I won’t expect anything back, and I do expect to leave sooner.”

  The clerk was clearly no stranger to such an arrangement.

  “No problem,” he said, and the money disappeared into his pocket. “Just sign the register, please.”

  I signed a fictitious name and in exchange was handed an old fashion room key attached to a large wooden ball the size of a tennis ball to discourage guests from walking out of the hotel with it. The room number was painted on the wooden ball.

  The room was two more floors up, small and sparsely furnished. The bath was only a metal shower stall, obviously a recent addition, which stood against one wall. The door had clanged against it when I entered. The tiny shared water closet was three doors away down a dusty corridor lined with a threadbare carpet.

  The ancient radiator pumped out waves of heat, making the room unbearably stuffy. With some effort I managed to open the double window a crack, after battling the layers of paint that sealed it to the sill. The sharp winter air felt good in these close quarters.

  It was 13 February – nine days since Thackery’s death just a few hundred miles west of where I now stood.

  I tossed my coat onto the bed and settled into the room's single, worn upholstered chair to light a cigar. The smoke rose in an undulating white ribbon from the luxurious Habano and snaked through the open window to dissipate into the damp atmosphere, a perfect metaphor for Stankov. Luck would have to play a big role in finding the Russian. Luck is a precious commodity in the espionage trade, but sometimes it’s all there is.

  I had met Stankov in Vienna years ago and had given him the coordinates for treffpunkt Greta, the meeting site he had used with Thackery just a few weeks ago. There was just a chance that the Russian would remember the accompanying emergency contact instructions that called for a meeting in front of the American Express office on Kaerntner Strasse, a popular pedestrian shopping street a few blocks around the corner from the pension. His cue to appear at the site was two vertical chalk marks on the mailbox in front of the postamt, the post office, at the corner of Krugerstrasse and Akademiestrasse.

  Stankov had always been excellent at his communications tradecr
aft. I had made sure of that. If he were still in Vienna, there was a good chance he would be checking for the signal every day. I would emplace the signal and hope for the best. If he saw it, he would come to the Kaerntner Strasse site the following night.

  CHAPTER 15 – "The Forest," February 12

  Vitaliy Mikhailovich Shurgin settled his wiry frame comfortably into the soft leather of the rear seat of his chauffeur-driven ZIL 41041 sedan, a tight smile on his foxlike face. Shurgin loved this status symbol of the old Soviet nomenklatura. This was the latest model, a 300 HP 7700 cc. monster V-8, capable of tremendous acceleration even in this armored version. If he were honest with himself, Shurgin’s affection for the vaguely sinister appearing automobile was largely based on the power and authority it symbolized.

  The former KGB officer missed the “good old days.” The privileges extended to those of his elite status had made them the envy and a source of fear for the regular citizenry of the old Soviet Union.

  Nevertheless he had to admit that things had not turned out so badly, certainly not for him personally. He recalled that day just a few years ago when he was called to the office of the Chief of the service. Shurgin was widely respected for his abilities, a rising star. Already a General and in charge of the powerful Group Nord, he was well known in the service for his hatred of the Americans and his advocacy of stronger tactics, including assassination, against CIA operatives. He had been but one of many in the Soviet hierarchy convinced that the Americans were preparing a nuclear first strike against the Soviet Union during the Reagan Administration. It was his undoubted patriotism and determination to prevail against the State’s enemies that had made him the ideal choice to carry out the highly confidential task that was entrusted to him on that day.

  The driver slowed and turned off of Moscow’s Ring Road, heading southward into a tree lined avenue and eventually making a sharp right turn toward a formidable guarded gateway. But Shurgin’s car did not continue through the gates that guarded the main entrance to the “Forest,” as the SVR Headquarters compound is known, but rather continued past them towards the residential zone.

  The heavy black automobile glided between the imposing multi-towered Headquarters complex on the right and the single story administrative and support structures on the left, finally rounding a hairpin curve before entering the exclusive residential development set aside for Russia’s highest ranking intelligence officials. The driver finally turned into a wide street that dead-ended at an open field and stopped before a narrow drive leading to a large, two-story mansion that was reserved for the SVR’s most important visitors. Behind the house, Shurgin knew, was a huge kidney-shaped swimming pool. Another car, a silver Mercedes, stood in the drive. His special guest was waiting for him.

  Alighting from the car, Shurgin buttoned his stylish Italian suit and pulled his camelhair overcoat around his shoulders. He was bare headed, and the light winter wind ruffled his thinning reddish hair.

  The main door of the house opened quietly inward as he approached, and he was met on the threshold by the imposing bulk of General Yuriy Ivanovich Morozov, the Russian bear to Shurgin’s fox. He was in full uniform today rather than his usual mufti in order to impress their visitor. General Morozov had been put in charge of the KGB’s Directorate “S,” in charge of Soviet Illegals operations all around the world shortly before the Berlin Wall fell. Despite the changes that still were taking place in Russian society, Morozov had clung to his position through it all. He was Shurgin’s most intimate ally.

  “How is our guest,” Shurgin asked, handing his overcoat to an orderly who had rushed to attend him.

  “Nervous, but interested. He did make the trip, after all, but I don’t think he likes being here.” Morozov glanced over his shoulder toward the double doors at the end of the entrance hall. “He was miffed that you weren’t here waiting when he arrived.”

  Shurgin’s lips compressed into a tight smile that betrayed no mirth. “We still have to show these chyornozhobtsi, these black asses, who’s who, don’t we?”

  Morozov grinned and nodded his assent. “I hate these self-righteous bastards,” he said between his teeth.

  Both men kept their voices low as they approached the double doors on the other side of the entrance foyer. “This is going to work, Yuriy. They may be bastards, but at least they'll be our bastards.”

  A uniformed enlisted man stood to attention at the double doors and opened them at a nod from Morozov. The two entered a large, brightly lit room decorated in opulent classic Soviet style with overstuffed sofas, large chairs, and heroic sculpture. Enormous windows overlooked the snow-covered garden and the empty swimming pool at the back of the house. Dark clouds scudded across the winter sky.

  Seated on the edge of one of the sofas near the windows was a tall, spare man in a sober black suit over a collarless shirt. His aquiline face was adorned with a short heavy beard. His brown eyes were dark under heavy brows.

  The dark man stood as Shurgin and Morozov entered the room. Shurgin extended his hand, “Welcome back to Moscow, General Hatimi.” They spoke in English, their only common language.

  Adel Hatimi, with the rank of General, was second in command of VEVAK, Vezarat-e Ettela'at va Amniat-e Keshvar, the intelligence service of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

  The Iranian took Shurgin’s hand with just a hint of reticence, so it seemed to Shurgin, as though touching an infidel (and worse, an atheist) might somehow contaminate him.

  “I hope your trip was comfortable,” Shurgin said smoothly, gesturing to the sofa. “Please, sit down.”

  The Iranian looked fatigued from the 1,600-mile trip from Teheran. “Thank you. Quite comfortable, Mr. Shurgin, or do you prefer ‘General?’” he replied, resuming his seat.

  Shurgin took the chair opposite. “I’m a civilian now, my friend. May I offer you refreshment? We can offer the finest fruit and vegetable juices from Bulgaria. A light luncheon can be arranged, if you like.”

  “Thank you, but my time in your country is limited. Your hospitality is impeccable, as always, but I would greatly appreciate getting to the point of our meeting.”

  Shurgin knew that Hatimi did not relish these visits. As a graduate of Qom’s Haqqani School, well known for radical Islamist extremism, he was one of a coterie of alumni that had the trust of the Mullahs. Nevertheless, only a few years ago Hatimi’s former boss, General Fardust, had been arrested in Tehran and charged with working for Soviet intelligence. It was a sign of the trust he enjoyed at home that Hatimi could make such a visit alone.

  “Very well, General Hatimi. I can confirm to you that the first shipments are being prepared as we speak. All that we require is your signature on the agreement on behalf of your government.”

  Hatimi glanced at the document Shurgin had thrust in front of him. “And do you sign on behalf of your government? To my knowledge the only post you hold is with the Moscow City Government as Deputy Mayor.”

  “I sign on behalf of my organization, General,” replied Shurgin smoothly with a smile punctuated by sharp teeth. “Things are not always what they appear on the surface in Russia, and we discussed this matter when we first met months ago, did we not? This is a unique opportunity, and we must not let it pass. You’ll be taken to the warehouses after our meeting to inspect the initial shipment. If you prefer, we can wait until afterwards to sign the agreement.”

  Hatimi knitted his brows for a moment, and then reached for the pen Shurgin extended to him across the table and signed the document.

  Shurgin sat back with a satisfied grunt as he observed the culmination of months of work. He thought back to his first encounter with Hatimi almost a year earlier.

  Shurgin had opened the meeting by pointing out that Russia and Iran shared a common enemy: the United States of America. He had baldly proposed an alliance of convenience that “will paralyze the Americans and drive them from the world stage.”

  *****

  The Iranian had been dismissive: “Your own country is i
n disarray and rife with corruption and violence. To our people, the Soviet Union was a ‘great Satan’ second only to America. By the grace of Allah, blessed be His name, Russia was defeated on the Afghan battlefield and finally defeated by the greater Satan, the Americans. Islam will defeat you again in Chechnya. Russia is weak, and I cannot imagine what you could possibly have to offer.” In reality, Hatimi knew exactly what the Russians had to offer. If these negotiations were successful, the benefit to the Islamic Republic of Iran would be enormous. But one does not always share one’s thoughts with infidel interlocutors. He was more interested in eliciting what the Russians were thinking.

  Shurgin restrained his temper and leaned forward, smiling. “You are wrong on several counts,” he began in a conciliatory but firm tone, “The Fatherland was not defeated and will never be defeated, not by you and certainly not by the Americans. A political system finally crumbled because of the rot within it. In the case of your own country, do you consider the fall of the Shah a ‘defeat’ for Iran?”

  The Iranian did not answer.

  Shurgin continued, “I care nothing for Communism and never did. My first concern has always been for the Fatherland, and the same goes for my KGB brethren. And as for the Americans, you misapprehend history, my friend.” Shurgin rose suddenly, warming to his theme, and began to pace the floor. At five feet nine inches tall and 165 lbs. he was not a physically imposing figure, but when he because animated, when his ice blue eyes lit with the inner fires of his convictions, he could be incredibly charismatic and persuasive. He turned to face to the Iranian, his voice gaining strength and passion.

  “We held the Americans at bay in Korea in the 50’s, and in the 60’s and 70’s we defeated them in Southeast Asia. The Americans are strong technologically and militarily. They are a clever people and strong as individuals. But collectively they lack the cohesiveness, the will and the attention span for a long conflict. Our agents in America and Europe supported the anti-Vietnam War movement, and the ‘useful idiots’ in America swallowed everything we fed them and begged for more. We turned the world against them and broke the will of America, and they cravenly abandoned their allies on the battlefield. Vietnam left a festering wound on the American psyche and provides us with a template for defeating them in any future conflict. All we have to do is to pick at the scab.