THE BRUTUS LIE

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  "You," Kapultichev growled. "You were behind this. It's because of you that--"

  Dobrynyn backhanded the pistol. It crashed to the bulkhead and clattered to the deck. He took a half-step back and grabbed Kapultichev's collar with his left hand. His right fist, swift and powerful, buried itself against the zampolit's nose. Bone crunched, teeth shattered, blood spurted as the man's legs gave way.

  Dobrynyn released the shirt. Kapultichev sagged to the deck.

  Zuleyev stood in the aft end of the bridge, looking out the channel, into the Baltic, willing his command, his 673 to take hold and find freedom. All she could do was shudder as her skipper shouted, screamed over his bellowing engines. He pounded both fists. He urged.

  His 673 could only pathetically wiggle.

  The talker shouted in his ear again, then shook his captain's shoulders. The chief engineer had advised, then screamed to the bridge talker that their thrust bearings were overheating. They would burn up soon.

  Zuleyev waited another sixty seconds, hoping, willing. His shoulder slumped, he nodded. He ordered all stop and secured his engines.

  First light was at five-thirty-five. At five-fifty, Kristine, a ten-meter fishing boat, weighed anchor and chugged out of a small cove in Hästholmen Island. She powered on a southerly course out of the fog shrouded Gåsefjärden toward the Baltic and her fishing grounds.

  A misty Torumsk Island slid down the port side as the Kris­tine's skipper gulped hot coffee and blinked sleep from his eyes. He looked to his port instrument console to check the DECCA. The LED wiggled as it usually did when it warmed up. He punched the LAT/LONG button to verify its alignment. It read:

  56˚ 04'.3 N

  15˚ 44'.1 E

  He studied the digits but something else swirled into his view just over the top of the console. His eyes flickered, then focused. Through the windshield. The long, black matte shape was enormous. Rust streaked down from limber holes. A periscope extended above the conning tower, its mirrored lens glinted toward him. He gulped. Fifty meters away. On Torumsk! Jesus!

  "Rolf! Wake up. Rolf! Jesus!" He jumped from the wheel, ran aft and shook his partner in his bunk. "Rolf!"

  CHAPTER TEN

  Admiral of the Red Banner Pacific Fleet and Hero of the Soviet Union Yeofofey D. Belousov studied the message, then leaned back in his chair and con­sidered the odds. He could let it go, do nothing. Possibly it wouldn't be exposed before he moved on to Moscow and his next job. It seemed minor, and yet...

  His chair squeaked as he turned and gazed out at the hills and harbor. On this misty September day, bustling Vladivostok was jammed full of merchant ships from all over the world. Likened to San Francisco in many ways, Vladivostok was known as the "Ruler of the East" and was easily the Soviet Union's largest Pacific seaport.

  Vladivostok was also homeport to Belousov's powerful Red Banner Pacific Fleet, whose newest additions included two forty-three-thousand ton Kiev class carriers, the Minsk, and the Novorossiysk. One‑third of the Soviet Union's strategic missile sub­marines fell under Belousov's administrative control, although they were operated by the KGB out of Petropavlovsk to the north. Belousov's command had well over thirty percent of his country's major surface warships and also deployed the largest fleet air arm. As a surface warfare specialist, he'd fought hard in the Defense Ministry's cloakrooms and finally received the brand new twenty-four thousand ton nuclear battle cruiser Frunze two years ago.

  But now, things were different. The Rodina wasn't the same as in the old days. Elected civilians in Moscow were wresting control of allocations long coveted by the military and were threatening to build TV sets, food machinery, and plumbing fixtures rather than completing modernization programs for the Voyenno Morskoy Flot, the Soviet Navy. And enlistments were down, meaning the Navy had to depend more and more on conscripts, ones not hyped on drugs or alcohol, for key technical tasks. His Red Banner Pacific Fleet, in particular, had almost intolerable ethnic, language, and cultural problems. Belousov sighed, realizing that these days he wasted more and more of his time grappling with hideous administrative realities he had never envisioned when he entered the navy thirty-one years ago.

  And now this problem. The message was a Faxed information copy routed to his own Pacific Fleet Intel­ligence Directorate from a Second Division line agent in Washing­ton, D.C. His blunt fingers carefully placed it beside an open folder labeled Jet Stream and he bent to read it again:

  TO: SPILLOVER

  FROM: MAXIMUM EBB

  IMPERATIVE WE MEET SOONEST LOS ANGELES. UNABLE TO TRAVEL. POSSIBLE USSR DEFECTION EX P/P. JET STREAM IN JEOPARDY. MAXIMUM EBB IN JEOPARDY. AVAILABLE COM STA 213.

  Belousov snorted at the phrase, "Jet Stream in jeopardy." Eighteen months ago MAXIMUM EBB--Felix Renkin--their American asset in Washington, D.C., had told SPILLOVER, Belousov's line agent, Yuri Borodine, that U.S. sub­marines had been sneaking into the Sea of Okhotsk for the past five years, listening to cable traffic between Petropavlovsk and the mainland. In a way, he admired that, right under the noses of his Red Banner Pacific Fleet. What audacity, what ingenuity, and all in international waters, too.

  The American intrusion required a counterintelligence operation and Belousov set up Jet Stream, which poured disin­formation over the cables when U.S. submarines were known to be in the area. It was a game, the Americans had to know that now. His intelligence staff was running out of ideas and was putting out such absurd crap over those wires. The really secret material went by satellite, guard mail, or courier to circumvent the U.S. Navy's operation--what did they call it? He ran a thick forefinger through the folder--Ivy Bells.

  He frowned at the phrase "Possible USSR defector ex P/P." Who? In his command? In Petropavlovsk? Never!

  Something else tugged at the back of his mind, a far deeper problem. He still wasn't sure why he'd inherited MAXIMUM EBB/Felix Renkin from the KGB two years ago. Upon reflection, the KGB had been unchar­acteristically happy to hand him over. Their rationale was that a naval line agent, such as Borodine, the one Belousov had in Washington D.C., would do a far better job extracting technical information. The only requirement was for the usual reports. The asset had not balked at the transfer of control and continued to provide price­less information. But it had been too easy. Now, as Belousov drummed his fingers, he thought he knew why.

  "Maximum ebb in jeopardy," the message said. The KGB had dumped the man on Belousov because they had been afraid of a blown cover. Belousov knit his brow. With great visibility, the Americans were unearthing Soviet agents right and left. True, some had been arrested due to plain bad luck, but others had gotten careless. American/Soviet relations were threatened at the highest levels and new policy directed that only the most efficient and non­contaminating agents be used. Emphasis was directed, for the time being, to passive methods, like the American listening operation, Ivy Bells.

  Belousov understood what they meant by 'non-contaminating'. Someone would hang if another agent were arrested.

  He drummed his fingers. Felix Renkin "in jeopardy." What kind? How imminent? Renkin, now highly placed in the U.S. govern­ment, had been on the Soviet payroll for several decades. If caught, he would be a major embarrassment.

  Belousov considered his options. Perhaps MAXIMUM EBB should retire before things came to a head, and well before Belousov got stuck with an international clamor that would cause his own premature retirement. He could offer Renkin a comfortable villa. It had to be somewhere in the West since defection to the Soviet Union was out of the question these days. Yes, he would instruct his line agent to ask the man about retirement after the Petropav­lovsk defection problem was sorted out.

  Belousov rubbed his jaw and undid his collar. He examined the message again, finding the routing fortunate. Keep it in the family, in his own intel­ligence command and away from the GRU, or worse, those ghouls in the KGB. It would get tricky if they learned of a potential defector in his command. They would quickly shove it up to Medvedev, the Navy's chief political directo
r in Moscow, directly under his commanding officer, Viktor P. Kolo­meytsyev. Then, crap would fly.

  He flipped the message over and checked the date-time group. It had been endorsed and forwarded from the Soviet embassy in Washington, D.C., over five hours ago.

  Belousov decided to permit Yuri Borodine's travel and expenses for the meeting in Los Angeles. He needed answers. He rang for Perelygin, his deputy chief of staff, to send the authori­zation.

  Captain Second Rank Yuri Borodine was happy to be on the ground. The flight to Los Angeles had been hectic. The football team, their victorious élan, their exuberance, had filtered through the entire coach section. Riding on an overcrowded DC-10, he'd been squeezed next to a monstrous, thick‑necked, grinning boy with pimples and short blond hair. The youngster had continually bellowed to his pals in the row forward, something about their season opener and how they'd slaughtered the other team.

  Borodine, on the other hand, had done his best to be quiet, to minimize conversation, and he had studied the same five pages of Popular Science all the way from the Dallas/Fort Worth Airport, where he'd transferred from his Washington D.C., flight. He was glad to be on the ground and in the modern, cool Delta Airlines terminal, away from gouging elbows and hacking, impetuous laughter.

  Those cretins. Those super soccer players or football players, or whatever they were, seemed no different from the ragtag, drug- sniffing ruffians his Soviet society produced nowa­days. Jealous of their athletic acumen and contemptuous of their empty heads, thirty‑six-year-old Yuri Borodine was glad he'd never indulged in sports. How could he with a five-foot-six-inch frame that carried 132 pounds, and an atrophied right foot?

  Borodine had suffered a severed Achilles tendon in a motor­cycle accident shortly after graduating from basic officers' training. About to be cashiered, Borodine demanded a hearing, citing his high marks. Reluctantly, they agreed to keep him on but only as a staffer, with no sea duty. This was to his liking, a way to make up for his physical defici­encies. In subsequent schools he always had the highest marks. Then his superiors handpicked him for the A. S. Popov Higher Naval School of Radio‑El­ectronics and later, the Kiev Higher Naval School. He graduated from both at the top of his class. He went on to language school, where he gained fluency in English and its American dialect. After several more schools, Borodine found himself in a niche of his own where his knowledge and wits would serve him better than any idiot's physical strength.

  He'd fallen into this assignment by accident. Borodine was billeted with the Red Banner Pacific Fleet Intelligence Direc­torate, Fifth Division--the electronics intelligence section where he excelled, as usual. They'd decided to send him to temporary duty in Washington, D.C., under the cover of a cultural attaché, to help support an ongoing ELINT operation against the U.S. Navy in Norfolk, Virginia. It was temporary duty, three months at most. That was five years ago.

  Yuri Borodine had grown up in Russia's ancient and magnificent Novgorod. Small, with slick jet-black hair, a pockmarked face, deeply sunken cheeks, and full lips, he looked less than pathetic. Borodine was ignored, people felt sorry for him, he never attended the "right" social functions and, indeed, was not invited to join the circuit in Washington; his looks forbade it. He was allowed to blend into the background.

  But his work was always impeccable. After three months in Washington they'd transferred him from the Fifth Division, Elec­tronics Intelligence, to the Second Division of the Pacific Fleet Intelligence Directorate as a line agent. Yuri Borodine became a spy, and a very good one. He didn't have to worry about political infight­ing since the other United States based agents were mostly KGB, interspersed with a few GRU types and one or two Moscow-based naval intelli­gence agents. Borodine was the only one from any of the four Fleet Intelligence Direc­torates. And Borodine, like the others, was now engaged in passive surveillance, marking time to see which way the political winds blew in the Rodina.

  Borodine dodged a foursome of uniformed cabin attendants. Reviewing the message, he recalled Belousov's priorities had been to first, take care of the defector problem then, if conditions made it feasible, explore the question of MAXIMUM EBB's retirement. But the retirement question was difficult, since it affected Borodine's operation. He had a good relationship with the asset now and the man had promised something in a year or two that could be a major intelligence coup. This would be good, possibly very good for Borodine's career.

  Borodine sighed as he dragged his foot along to the phone booth. He would see to the defector problem, all right. Retiring the asset was something that perhaps could be mentioned, then put in abeyance. If the man did produce, Borodine would finally get the position the Naval Personnel Directorate in Moscow was discussing, a prized one: head of the Fifth Division, Intelligence Directorate, for the Twice‑Honored Red Banner Baltic Fleet in Leningrad.

  Leningrad, the Hermitage, the Venice of Russia, the Neva River, the parties, his old friends and, best of all, only 160 kilometers northwest of Novgorod, with his favorite retreats, the Volkhov River and Lake Ilmen. Yuri Borodine would give thought to joining the cocktail circuit and working his way up socially. Until then...

  He picked up the phone and closed his eyes, recalling the digits, and punched up the 213 COM STA code for the week. The phone relays clicked and growled at his ear. With a sigh, he identified two satellites keying in. He wanted to sit, but his good leg would fall asleep, so he leaned against the partition and waited ninety seconds while the connection worked its way around.

  Borodine eyed the LAX crowd automatically. The last of the football players from his flight folded into the horde. He saw his seatmate, the blond crew-cut grinning kid, bowl his way down the long hall dragging a duffle bag, his shirttail hanging out. The kid had his arm around a flight attendant's shoulder.

  "Two five two one."

  Borodine immediately spoke in his deep, compelling bass. "Good afternoon. Worthington Hatch here. I'd like to talk with someone about the Chagall we purchased last week. It appears to be damaged and they sent me to discuss it with you."

  "Yes. Where are you, Mr. Hatch?"

  "I just arrived and have my own transportation, thank you." Borodine would rent a car, he didn't want to be at Carrington's mercy. They would meet on neutral ground, without Carrington hulking around the table he hoped. "We could meet later at the Bonaventure in downtown L.A. if you like, say, about four o'clock?"

  "Sorry, Mr. Hatch, the Bonnie's out. Like we said, we have a mobility problem."

  "Serious?"

  "Very uncomfortable, but otherwise OK." A pause, then, "I'd like to pick you up."

  "No, that won't be necessary." Borodine's mind raced ahead. He didn't want to be at their mercy, without transportation. "I'll come out there. Let me have your address, please."

  "Mr. Hatch, I have instructions to pick you up."

  Time to get serious and quit jousting. "Ah, yes, we can always send the Chagall back. It's still in its crate. We're sure the frame and canvas are just as you packed them."

  Borodine smiled as he heard the mouthpiece covered on the other end. Muffled tones followed, then silence.

  The hand squeaked off the mouthpiece. "Yes, all right, four o'clock here. We're in Newport Beach."

  "Thank you. Where?"

  "Number twelve, Oakmont Lane. That's in a gated community called Big Canyon. We'll leave word with the guard." He gave directions.

  Borodine relaxed. The safe house near the coast sounded all right. Neighbors, probably children playing, a golf course nearby. It sounded authentic.

  "Four o'clock, then." Borodine hung up, then headed toward the main concourse. It would be an hour and a half drive and there was time for a quick bite. He was hungry now. Borodine checked his watch and found he could just make it.

  Borodine walked to a restaurant, sat down and ordered a cobb salad. While waiting, he went over MAXIMUM EBB's--Felix Renkin's background in his mind. The doctor spoke French, German, and Italian fluently. His under­graduate degree was in politica
l science and, in 1950, had joined the U.S. Navy, where they made him a courier. Based in London, his routes took him through Rome, Frankfurt, Munich, Brussels, and Berlin. An agent of the Soviet NKVD, predecessor to the MVD and active in Germany before the KGB took over, had blackmailed Renkin, photographing him in flagrante delicto with a Berlin prostitute who was a known NKVD informer. Renkin turned over his courier pouch for photocopying in return for a set of negatives, which, he realized without being told, was a duplicate batch. When Renkin learned the prostitute was pregnant with his child he bolted, getting himself transferred to Seventh Fleet headquarters at the Yokosuka Naval Station in Japan.

  The Soviets used discretion in selecting Renkin's Far East control. They recognized his intellect was counterbalanced by immaturity, and that he was a loner in need of friendship. His Far East control propped up the ensign's ego and started him with easy assignments, such as reporting ship movements and photographing less sensitive documents marked "confidential" and "secret."

  At his release from active duty in 1958 the Soviets turned Renkin inactive. He was to devote his energy to developing a civilian career. By this time he had risen to full lieutenant and had become very confident, almost arrogant. Occasionally, his control had to remind Renkin that he was an agent and that they could blow his cover. The control also told Renkin that the prostitute had died in a bomb blast and that he'd sired not one child, but identical twin boys. The KGB man--by this time the KGB had replaced the MVD--told him one had been adopted by an NKVD sergeant and was being raised in Leningrad while the other was living in California.

  Lieutenant Renkin was incredulous that his issue was now an American. The control told him the boy had been adopted by an Army demolitions corporal, Willard Harrison Lofton, who had married a young German girl. They came to Minneapolis in 1953 and were divorced almost immediately. She disappeared and Corporal Lofton kept the baby and moved to California, where he was killed in an auto wreck in 1954. The toddler was consigned to San Diego orph­anages.