THE BRUTUS LIE

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Carrington relaxed. He had received a pat on the back.

  Renkin rose and walked around his desk. "I'll have Lofton taken out immediately. And his twin, too, if he has been exposed to Lofton and the X‑3 operation."

  He picked up his phone. "Martha? Please call General Mar­quette's office and reschedule our meeting to tomorrow. Something has come up."

  "Sir. A second message is coming in for you. Do you--"

  "Yes. I'll wait."

  At 5:05 P.M. in the Washington, D.C., Soviet embassy, Captain Second Rank Yuri Borodine closed the door and walked behind the crypto clerk to watch the coding machine decipher another message. A yellow light blinked and the machine stopped. The page scrolled up, was torn off and handed to him.

  TO: SPILLOVER

  FM: MAXIMUM EBB

  OPERATION SWITCH CANCELED. TOO MANY CONTINGENCIES TIED TO TWIN ASPECT ON THIS SIDE. FULL REPORT/ DEAD DROP 43. IMPERATIVE YOU ELIMINATE LOFTON ASAP. RECOMMEND ELIMINATE TWIN IF DETAILS OP SWITCH KNOWN TO HIM PART­ICULARLY THE LOFTON/X‑3 ASPECTS. PLS ACKNOWLEDGE.

  Borodine took a secretarial chair, sat heavily, and wiped his brow. Relief swarmed over him. Yes, cancel operation switch. He'd gone too far with Renkin's adventuresome plan in the first place. Especially in light of the "Most Secret" message he'd received from Belousov five minutes ago. Belousov! Until now, the admiral had never con­tacted him directly. Usually Perelygin, Belousov's deputy chief of staff, signed correspondence and issued his orders.

  Borodine whipped the admiral's message from the folder:

  TO: SPILLOVER

  FM: COMRBPACFLT

  INTERROGATIVE:

  1. OPERATION SWITCH.

  2. MAXIMUM EBB RETIREMENT, STATUS

  ADVISE ASAP.

  The first question, when juxtaposed with the second, meant Belousov was itchy about switching the brothers and was telling Borodine to tactfully drop the whole thing. Fine. Euphoria over the X-3's capture had motivated Borodine to go along with the proposed exchange. And it kept Renkin happy. But later, Borodine had grown nervous about it. Belousov must have felt the same way even though Sadka's reports had been extremely positive. The Psychopharmacologist was enthused, he wanted to get to work right away and had accelerated the schedule.

  Borodine absently rubbed his leg. It tingled and fell asleep as he looked back to Renkin's message:

  CONTINGENCIES TIED TO TWIN ASPECT

  He would have to read Renkin's report to find out what had actually gone wrong, but that didn't matter now. He would cancel the ill-conceived venture at once and learn the details later.

  His eye jumped down to another line on Renkin's message:

  IMPERATIVE YOU ELIMINATE LOFTON ASAP....ELIMINATE TWIN....

  Renkin's tone was immediate, almost urgent, and Borodine reminded himself to look into that, too. He checked his watch. Sadka and his subjects were airborne and were due to arrive at Kubinka Airdrome in another two hours. All Borodine had to do was send the order and Sadka would have to kill the twins within minutes after landing. Belousov, reluctant about dealing with Sadka and his KGB holdouts in the first place, would gladly endorse the command. The admiral's clout would override any hesitancy from the men with green shoulderboards.

  Rubbing his knee, Borodine considered the ramifications of Belousov's second question. He hadn't pushed Renkin's retirement as Belousov originally intended. Borodine would have to figure a way to further delay it until after his intelligence coup--his ticket to Novgorod.

  For Dr. Felix Renkin was going to deliver a brand-new Bell-Boeing V‑22 Osprey, an advanced-technology rotary‑wing aircraft, which cost millions to develop. It featured state-of-the-art composite materials, the newest electronics, and revolutionary tiltable twin Allison T406-AD-400 turboprop engines with 6150 shaft horsepower each.

  The National Security Council had five of the tilt‑rotor aircraft on order, two of which were scheduled for black missions in South America. They could do strikes like the one the U.S. had done in Panama, but more efficiently, with far greater range and larger payload than helicopters. Renkin agreed that a V-22 would conveniently be shot down in a remote spot, with Borodine's people waiting close at hand.

  Renkin had negotiated hard; $8.5 million with an advance deposit of $250,000. Belousov must have forgotten about the advance, which was a lot of money for a delivery two years hence. The coproduction order was a stroke of genius. If the V-22 program were canceled, Borodine would still have an Osprey from the NSC's inventory now secretly under con­struction at Federal Technologies.

  In his mind, Borodine sketched his reply to Admiral Belousov. So far, results were positive. Thanks to Dr. Renkin, they'd rid themselves of the defector and a CIA asset, one who had effectively penetrated Petropavlovsk and could have become even more dangerous; they had saved the Ivy Bells and Jet Stream operations and as a bonus had captured the X-3 with all its marvelous secrets free of charge. That alone was worth $250,000 and he would point that out to Belousov.

  On the other hand, Borodine assumed Belousov was worried the KGB had dumped Renkin on the Red Banner Pacific Fleet Intelligence Directorate to avoid terrible recriminations if Renkin was exposed. Belousov's thick mind would conjure up an embellished macro picture of negative world opinion; losing most-favored-nation trading status with the U.S., losing lines of credit, losing face, and tarnishing the glasnost image.

  But Belousov didn't know the man as Borodine did. Dr. Renkin was a highly experienced asset incapable of taking an impetuous step that would blow his cover. The man was just too careful for that. He handled himself well and was intelligent enough to ask for help; he'd done so in California. Surely he could last another eighteen months or so. Enough time to consolidate the V-22 situation.

  Pins and needles coursed through Borodine's leg. He stood and almost lost his balance. By all means, cancel Operation Switch, eliminate the twins, and take care of Doctor Renkin, his ticket to Novgorod. The retirement question would be broached in another two to three months. That should satisfy Belousov for the time being.

  He stumbled, catching the crypto oper­ator's raised eyebrow. "Yes, I'd like to dictate two messages. The first goes to Pacific Fleet Intelligence in Vladivostok."

  Dobrynyn handed Lofton a steaming mug of tea and walked to the window. "Don't worry. Alex does his guardmail run six days a week. You'll get out tonight."

  Lofton, wanting the practice, answered Dobrynyn's Russian. "All right. You said you were married? What was her name?"

  Dobrynyn lifted the curtain and peered out. Petro­pavlovsk would wake up soon. "Irenna." He sighed. "She was an ice ska­ter...Olympic caliber. They wouldn't send her to the Lake Placid Olympics...."

  "Why?"

  Dobrynyn studied the street, almost dawn, no unusual activity. He eased the curtain back, finding his fists were doubled. "You. They were afraid she would contact you. That somehow, both of us would defect."

  "That's ridiculous. I had no idea."

  Dobrynyn tried to relax. "Doesn't matter now. It wasn't a good marriage anyway."

  "What happened?"

  "She left me and joined Aeroflot. Married a pilot, divorced him, and married her skating partner. They run an ice-skating gymnasium now."

  "The Lake Placid Olympics. 1980. Is that when she left you?"

  "No. 1981."

  "A bimbo. Me too, 1981. But, her name was Ann. I got a `Dear John' letter after she cleaned out our checking and savings accounts." Lofton filled his lungs, his ribs felt much better. Ullanov had done a good job of taping them.

  "Dear John?"

  "You know, when a woman dumps on her serviceman husband. She sends the letter and he's reading it just as a bad guy crawls to the edge of his foxhole with a live grenade in each hand. In my case, I'd been working almost three weeks solid. I came home late one night and found the letter on the bed."

  "Yes. I know about `Dear John' letters." Dobrynyn told him about Irenna's, then asked, "Your wife's name was Ann?"

  Lofton said, "The marriage lasted al
most two years. It was strictly physical, although I didn't realize it at the time. We must have been in bed eighteen of those twenty-four months."

  "What happened to her?"

  "Married a dentist, cleaned him out, and moved to Florida. Last I heard, she'd married a seventy-two-year-old real estate magnate with a private island in the Caribbean."

  They fell silent. Dobrynyn sat in a creaky wooden chair and looked around the apartment. A lucky find. What was the girl's name? The one stationed at the submarine base? Tanya, Ullanov's girlfriend. The hot, blond communications clerk the sergeant had met in Libya. One of Ullanov's intercontinental string of women, she'd given him the signet ring he still wore. It had taken Ullanov only hours to reestablish their relationship after they'd flown in with Sadka.

  Tany­a's place was sparse: a kitchenette, a small living room, and a pull‑down bed. But she had somehow wangled a bathroom with a shower; a luxury.

  Dobrynyn checked his watch: 5:37. Ullanov was due back soon. Dobrynyn had sent him to contact Alex's crew chief and check the situation at the Spetsnaz brigade HQ after their wild, three‑man motorcycle ride from Rakovaya. His brother had showered and now rested comfortably on Tanya's perfumed sheets.

  Dobrynyn asked, "Why did you leave the SEALS? You would be a major or a lieutenant colonel now."

  "That's military rank. The SEALS are Navy. I would be a lieutenant commander or commander, maybe even a captain." He looked at Dobrynyn. "But, if the truth be known, I hit an officer."

  "What?" Dobrynyn's jaw dropped.

  "Yeah." Lofton looked around. "On the way back from Vietnam. We stopped in Honolulu for our first real liberty and decided to start at the O Club for cheap drinks before we hit town. A drunken reserve colonel was pawing the cocktail waitress. The guy ran his hands up her dress, she was just a kid. I don't know," Lofton exhaled. "I saw red."

  "I hit 'im. Broke his nose. The guy had served a term in Congress. He knew enough people to make sure I was passed over for lieutenant commander. Charges were never pressed, but he got it done and I resigned from the Navy. So, I--Anton, what's wrong?"

  Dobrynyn rocked forward on his chair. "Do you know why I'm in this hole of civilization?" He waved an arm. "Volcanoes, rain, granite, snow, forty-knot winds, ice, cold ocean, three movie theaters for two hundred thousand people. Plenty of bars, though, and thousands of liters of vodka, even narcotics."

  "I thought you were stationed in Baku. That Sadka brought you here for a switch."

  "No. Petropavlovsk is typical of the assignments I've had. I've always been marked because I...we were German born. And I was marked because I had an American brother. They never let up."

  He looked at Lofton and caught his gaze. "I also decked an officer, as you say. I broke the bastard's nose and would have killed him if it hadn't been for Josef. That sealed my career."

  It was Lofton's turn to look amazed.

  "Yes, yes," Dobrynyn drove his left fist into his right palm. "His damned nose."

  "What was it about?"

  "Did you hear about one of our submarines running aground near the Karlskrona Naval Base in Sweden? It was in 1981."

  "Sure. The 'Whiskey‑on‑the‑rocks' incident. Made all the front pages. It took a few days to get the thing towed off, as I remember."

  "Guess who was aboard as a young Spetsnaz?"

  Tanya's apartment grew lighter as Dobrynyn told the story. "When we returned, the executive and operations officers were relegated to menial duties. The zampolit was cashiered also, but he got to me first. He had friends like your colonel, who set up something special for the captain, Josef, and me: They sent us to a terrorist training camp in Libya. You, I mean Ameri­cans...bombed us. Zuleyev, our captain was killed. Josef was almost killed, too.

  Lofton traced a finger over Tanya's pillow lace.

  "That's when we were transferred to the Caspian Sea Flotilla. Baku." Dobrynyn opened his hands. "They like to send us on raids into Iran when we're not keeping the Armenians at bay."

  "You're like outlaws?"

  "Umm."

  "You grew up in Leningrad?"

  "Yes. I even had a foster father, once."

  "So, you took his name."

  Dobrynyn's eyes grew unfocused. "No. It wasn't that simple. Theo Kunitsa adopted me in Berlin..."

  "Kunitsa? My foster father was Lofton. How did you become Dobrynyn?"

  "I was known as Manfried Lubeck when I lived with him. Kunitsa was an NKVD sergeant who was killed on some sort of bungled spy mission in the West. I was sent to an orphanage, which wouldn't accept someone so openly of German heritage, and they wouldn't let me take Kunitsa's name. So their first step was to assign what they said was a decent, proper Soviet name. Dobrynyn."

  Lofton shook his head. "Orphanages were not fun."

  "I was at several, actually. The first one--" Dobrynyn cocked an ear and stood, hearing a soft tapping. He went to the door and opened it. Ullanov quickly walked in, his face flushed. He was out of breath.

  Dobrynyn closed the door softly. "Josef?"

  Ullanov sat at the small kitchen table, snatched off his beret, then unshouldered his AK‑74 and propped it in a corner. He cocked an eye at Lofton. "How do you feel, Commander?"

  Lofton sat up. "Civilian--the name's Lofton, and I feel fine."

  "Josef, what's wrong?" Dobrynyn stood between them.

  Master Sergeant Josef Ullanov looked up at Dobrynyn. "They... there's a general alert out for you, an arrest order. The KGB, Fleet Intelligence, the GRU--everybody. I don't understand it. Even Department Sixteen is in on the act. They sent a team from Moscow to inter­rogate you. They're due to arrive in two hours or so."

  "Sadka," Dobrynyn muttered and sat on the bed. "A botched job. We didn't have time to plan correctly." He looked up. "What about Alex?"

  "I couldn't get on the air base. It's--"

  "Shhh," Lofton said. Footsteps, two pairs of boots thumped down the hall. Lofton jumped from the bed and put on his shirt. Ullanov grabbed his AK‑74 and eyed the door. The boots squeaked by, muttering voices receded. A door opened and slammed at the other end. The three looked at one another and relaxed. Lofton finished buttoning his shirt.

  "...sealed tight with patrols and dogs. We can't do now what we tried last night." Ullanov shook his head, "This is something much more. It's big. I sense it. The local KGB teams would have investigated the wreck and sifted evidence to assure Sadka's and," he threw a thumb, "Lofton's demise. But that takes time. Yet there is already an arrest order for you specifically from the main Naval Intelli­gence Directorate in Moscow. That couldn't have happened so soon just because of a car wreck.

  "I had to buy time, so I tossed the message. Then I saw a copy of the same message addressed to the KGB with Admiral Belo­usov's endorsement. Can you believe that? The admiral of the Red Banner Pacific Fleet endorsing a KGB order to arrest you? And Belousov hates those people, we all know that!

  "I couldn't toss that message, it was delivered by messenger directly to Major Pechenga. He showed it to me and asked where you were. I said I didn't know and slipped out the back door a few minutes ago.

  "Apparently the local KGB has already sent a team to your quarters, and the brigade HQ is in pandemonium. Pechenga doesn't know what to do. There's a GRU colonel there right now sitting in his office watching every move."

  "Good God!" Lofton said.

  Dobrynyn nodded to his brother, then eyed Ullanov.

  "I don't know, Colonel," the sergeant said, "it might have to do with your brother but..."

  "Go on, Josef."

  Ullanov sighed. "I have a feeling they don't care if Mr. Civilian here or Dr. Sadka are dead or alive right now. They want you. Period."

  "And what about you, Josef?"

  "I'll be all right, sir."

  "Josef?"

  Ullanov looked at the ceiling.

  "I see. Are you absent without leave, Josef?"

  Ullanov shrugged.

  Dobrynyn stood and took a step toward his sergeant.
r />   Lofton said quietly, "Anton."

  "What?" Dobrynyn's head whipped to Lofton.

  Lofton nodded toward Ullanov, "It looks like he's made a decision. Three, not one or two naval careers are wrecked now."

  Dobrynyn tried again. "Josef, damnit, I don't matter. What about your mother? What about," he sputtered, "Tanya? You have people. How can you just walk out on the Navy? You have almost twenty years."

  Ullanov turned. "I haven't seen my mother for twelve years. We write, yes, and exchange gifts. But she has terminal cancer; she'll be gone in four to six months." He waved a hand. "Tanya, no, we never were serious, although it seemed so at one time. She's due to be posted to Sevastopol next month and that will be that. No, there will be other girls.

  "And, speaking of Tanya, she gets off duty within the hour. In a situation like this, her loyalties will definitely be with the men from Moscow. We should be out of here by then."

  Dobrynyn shook his head and stepped close to Lofton. "I still don't know why...all I wanted...was to save you from Sadka, to keep you from that man's drugs and his filthy interrogation chambers."

  He turned to Ullanov and spread his palms. "I couldn't help it, Josef. This man--he's my brother. We're the same." He slammed a fist on the table. "And now my life is really botched. They want to arrest me--why?"

  "Renkin," Lofton said.

  Dobrynyn ran a hand over his face. "Who? You mentioned that name before."

  Lofton did the telling quickly. He added details about his own theft of Brutus, the refueling and shoot‑out at berth 209, and why he chose to come to Petropavlovsk first to intercept PARALLAX and PITCHFORK aboard the Kunashiri Maru before he ran south to disarm the CAPTORs. "Renkin is a powerful man in America. He's the reason I'm here and because of him one 125 American sailors are now dead along with those on the Kunashiri Maru."

  Ullanov said, "Commander--"

  "Please. It's Brad."

  "All right, Mr. Brad." Ullanov arched an eyebrow. "I may have some interesting news for you."