The Bearpit

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Just as long as they don’t get in our way,’ said Bunin.

  ‘We’ll walk all over them!’ goaded Yuri.

  ‘Bloody right,’ said Gusev, his mind jammed on replay.

  ‘Prove to everyone why we’ve been given the responsibility!’ said Yuri, cheerleading like the muezzin in the mosques outside.

  ‘Prove it like no one will believe!’ endorsed Solov.

  Yuri hesitated, curiously, unsure if the remark were anything more than braggadocio buoyed up on a sea of alcohol. He’d been idly amusing himself, prodding their stupid reaction. More intently now, Yuri said: ‘Hararajat showed the mujahideen aren’t to be underestimated: it’s important not to forget that.’

  ‘It’s important for the mujahideen to be shown that the KGB is not to be underestimated, either. Or forget it,’ said Solov, and Bunin laughed.

  Eyes-Only traffic, remembered Yuri. He said: ‘I have things to do here in the compound. But I would consider it an honour to buy you another bottle of vodka: this one is exhausted.’

  ‘And we would consider it a pleasure to accept,’ sniggered Anishenko.

  Russian tradition dictated that Yuri, although a departing host, should accept the initial toast.

  ‘Socialism!’ proposed Solov.

  ‘Socialism,’ echoed everyone, including Yuri, who said it dutifully. The vodka was cheap and harsh to his throat: Russian style, each man emptied his glass in one gulp.

  Yuri made to rise but Solov waved him down, refilling the glasses. ‘To the Cheka,’ toasted the rezident, calling the KGB by the name by which it has traditionally been known from the time of Feliks Dzerzhinsky’s inception, and by which they still privately referred to themselves, boasting their membership of a special club.

  ‘The Cheka,’ intoned everyone around the table.

  Yuri used the internal telephone in the main lobby of the compound and Ilena answered after the second ring, as if she had been expecting the call.

  ‘I wanted it to be you,’ she said.

  ‘I’m lonely,’ said Yuri. And inquisitive, he thought.

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘The Bolshoi, the State Circus or just a quiet dinner at the Aragvi?’ said Yuri. The Aragvi, on the Ulitza Gor’kovo, served the best Georgian food in Moscow. It had been one of Yuri’s favourite restaurants, with a table always available because of whose son he was.

  She giggled, responding to the irony, and said: ‘Why don’t we eat in, just to be different for once?’

  ‘Maybe some lamb?’

  ‘And I’ve got lamb! What a coincidence!’

  What were the Muslems going to do when they’d eaten all the sheep in the world, wondered Yuri. Camel maybe? He said: ‘Looks like lamb for a change then.’

  ‘What about afterwards?’ said the woman coquettishly.

  ‘We can talk about this and that,’ said Yuri, another remark for his own benefit. The woman misunderstood, of course, and laughed.

  Victor Kazin savoured the intrigue he was initiating and was sure of winning. He felt like one of the jugglers at the State Circus, keeping more and more coloured balls in the air until it was difficult to see how many there were aloft at any one time. No, he corrected, at once. Not a juggler. Not a clever enough analogy. A chess player. Grand master class, all the pieces set out, a classic game already formulated in his mind and Malik without any defence. Agayans, he decided, was definitely a pawn. Fittingly the first move then. The Directorate security man, Major Panchenko, had soon to be introduced defensively into the game. A rook perhaps. What about the brat of a son? Another pawn. And Yevgennie Levin? A knight, maybe: possibly a king, eventually. Certainly the piece to be moved next.

  Kazin snorted contemptuously at Vladislav Belov’s recommendation that the operation be delayed because Levin’s daughter was here in Moscow undergoing medical treatment. It had been one of Stalin’s most basic principles that people performed better under the pressure of retribution if they failed. Old styles – old practices – were still the best.

  He signed the authorization, because it was essential this operation was one with which he should be provably linked, and marked it for immediate transmission to America.

  The Central Intelligence Agency weren’t just going to be thrown into turmoil, reflected Kazin, remembering further his conversation with Belov. They were going to be wrecked.

  4

  Moscow’s signal, activating the mission for which most of his operational life had been spent in preparation, bewildered Yevgennie Levin. Galina had always been part of it and was prepared but the children, Natalia and Petr, were always going to be confused, unknowing. Which the planning had allowed for with the positive agreement that they would remain together, as a family, never divided. So the signal coming when Natalia was in Moscow was nonsense!

  Levin’s was a cell-like room, a small box within a bigger box at the United Nations headquarters, but his seniority at least gave him a view of the East River. A linked line of barges, flat in the water, made a disjointed, arthritic line downstream in the direction of the unseen Statue of Liberty and the sea beyond, pushed officiously by a fat-bellied tug that seemed inadequate for the job. What about his adequacy for the job towards which he was now being prematurely pushed? At the self-question the nervousness positively vibrated through him, making the supposed recall cable shake in his hand. Despite all the training he didn’t really know what was to come: they had only been able to guess and to suggest and now the moment was here – the moment he had grown increasingly frightened would actually arrive – it all seemed utterly insufficient. Enough uncertainties then, without the inexplicable complication of Natalia trapped in Moscow. It could only be a mistake, an oversight. But there was no way he could query it, get it resolved before he had to move, because to everyone at the UN mission his defection had to appear genuine. Just as the need for absolute security dictated it had to appear that way to almost everyone in Dzerzhinsky Square, as well. So he was trapped, like Natalia, before he even began. Why! agonized Levin. Why! Why! Why!

  He squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the river view, striving for control before he confronted the rezident, which protocol decreed he do immediately. He contacted Vadim Dolya on the internal telephone and as he expected the rezident agreed to see him within thirty minutes; although the cable was designated for his attention only, Levin knew a copy would have been sent separately to the controller, who would therefore have been waiting for the approach. Levin replaced one receiver and looked at the other, the outside line, wanting to speak to Galina but never forgetting the standard, insisted-upon procedure always was to act in the belief that open Soviet connections in the United Nations were monitored by the FBI. Which after all would have been a sensible precaution for America’s counter-intelligence service to take. Russians attached to the UN had the status of international civil servants, were not governed by the radius-to-city limitations imposed upon other Soviet installations within the United States and so it was regarded – and used – by the KGB and GRU as the most important intelligence base anywhere in the world.

  Levin left his cramped office to make his way to the more spacious quarters of the UN’s mineral resources unit, where his official designation as economic affairs officer had enabled him during his tenure to advise Dzerzhinsky Square of every major – and some not so major – natural mineral deposit in Western and Third World countries. He made the pretence of looking at the incoming mail and the diary of that day’s events, relieved there were no committee meetings demanding his presence, and left for the appointment with Dolya still with time to spare. Always being on time was a trait of Levin’s, which sometimes surprised people who did not know him well because he was a shambling, untidy man, stray-haired and baggily suited; not someone who would immediately appear a stickler for appointments. But then Yevgennie Levin’s entire training had been to appear different from the person he was. And forever had to remain.

  Dolya’s attachment – and cover – was to the UN’s peace and
security studies section, but they did not meet there because the precautions against eavesdropping extended beyond telephone lines to include the offices they occupied. Instead they talked as most of the other delegations talked when they sought conversations they did not want overheard, pacing head-bent the wide, art-donated and decorated corridors of the skyscraper building.

  ‘Back to Moscow, then?’ said Dolya, at once. In contrast to Levin, the rezident was a fussily neat, bespectacled man given to studying his reflection in passing mirrors, constantly to ensure everything about himself was properly in place.

  ‘Earlier than I expected,’ said Levin. It was essential – safer – always to be as honest as possible. So much to remember!

  ‘The normal tour is two years,’ pointed out Dolya.

  ‘I have only been here eighteen months,’ said Levin.

  ‘No indication of any posting beyond Moscow?’

  If there had been it would have breached security to have disclosed it to Dolya, which the man knew, and Levin was surprised at the question. He wondered what would happen to the man after the defection: he was a required victim. Levin said: ‘None at all.’

  ‘You’ll be missed,’ said Dolya.

  Levin guessed there was truth as well as politeness in the platitude. His posting within the minerals section had provided Moscow with an enormous amount of information from which the government ministries had been able to make economic calculations and assessments extending at least three years into the future, particularly involving their own oil and natural gas deposits. Matching platitude with platitude Levin said: ‘I shall miss being here.’ Then he added: ‘The recall stipulates two weeks.’

  ‘I will inform the secretariat: see that all the necessary paperwork is completed,’ assured Dolya. On apparent impulse he added: ‘And maybe a farewell party. Nothing too large: just a few friends. Galina would be included, of course.’

  ‘That would be kind,’ said Levin. There was the vaguest stir of guilt at cheating the other man.

  ‘Has Galina enjoyed it here?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘And the children?’

  ‘It’s been a different experience.’ Natalia! he thought. Why did there have to be this stupidity with Natalia!

  ‘Perhaps whatever you do next will be as worthwhile,’ said Dolya.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Levin, with more feeling than the other man would ever know.

  ‘Is there anything else I can do apart from the bureaucratic formalities?’ offered Dolya generously.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Levin. Poor bastard, he thought.

  ‘You’ll be taking back as much electrical stuff as possible?’ anticipated Dolya, because every returning Russian did. ‘I’ll tell dispatch so they can arrange shipment. Don’t forget to buy an electrical converter: it’s surprising how many people do.’

  ‘I’ll remember,’ undertook Levin. Why should he feel the hypocrite he did? He was making a greater sacrifice for Russia than Dolya ever would.

  ‘Don’t just buy the article itself,’ urged the rezident, enjoying the role of expert. ‘Get spares, as well, for when it goes wrong.’

  They had walked the complete circle of the building, arriving back where they started, and Levin knew the other man expected the conversation to end: take-home spoils were always the conclusion of such encounters. He said: ‘There is something. I would like to take Galina out, sometimes, during the last few evenings.’ Despite their supposed status in the United Nations, the Soviet Union did not regard its nationals as unfettered international diplomats. They were bussed daily to and from the securely guarded compound at Riverdale, in the South Bronx, and their whereabouts at all times logged in movement books both there and throughout the UN building, so permission for any change from normal had to be granted.

  The KGB rezident looked up sharply from his head-bent stance against any directional microphone intercept or visual lipreading and said: ‘Take her out!’

  Levin felt a jump of unease. ‘A restaurant. The theatre, maybe…’ He smiled, inviting the other man’s understanding after the lecture on the superiority of American consumer goods. ‘Whatever or wherever the next posting, I doubt it will be anything like New York.’

  ‘It could be London? Paris?’ suggested Dolya.

  ‘Still not the same.’ Please don’t let the imbecile become suspicious, not at this moment! Another contingency for which no allowance had been made.

  Dolya smiled, an expression as abrupt as his looking up from the protective conversation. ‘You’re right,’ he agreed. ‘Nothing is quite like New York.’

  ‘You approve it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Two or three nights, that’s all.’

  ‘Advise me in advance.’

  Levin wondered how deeply the local KGB chief would later personally regret this particular acquiescence: he sincerely hoped it would not be too bad for the man. He said: ‘Of course. Every time.’

  ‘Travel safely, Yevgennie Pavlovich.’

  Of everything that had happened on this uncertain day, the unexpected invocation of one of the oldest Russian proverbs came close to causing Levin’s open collapse. He swallowed against the sensation, feigning a cough so that he could raise a hand to his mouth to cover his distress from the other man. ‘To return to be your companion again, Vadim Alekseevich,’ he said, completing the rote-like ritual. He listened intently to the sound of his own voice, surprised at its evenness.

  The recall notice gave Levin the excuse to leave ahead of the normal, mass departure of the other Soviet officials. He felt safe telephoning ahead, to warn Galina he would be early: she was too well prepared to respond wrongly over the open line but Levin was confident she would understand something was happening because he rarely departed from normality when he was working within the confines of the United Nations.

  She was still cautious when he entered the compound apartment, following his lead, which he offered quickly, not wanting her to give any blurted sort of reaction too soon to be discerned by those who daily transcribed the monitors he knew to be installed in their apartment. Very early in the posting Levin had found three listening devices in the most obvious places – the telephone receiver, the light socket and inside the actual keyhole of the door separating the living room from the main bedroom – before abandoning the search as a useless exercise, because he knew they were the ones he was expected to find and that there would be others more cleverly concealed. Quickly, to guide her, he said: ‘I thought we might go out tonight. Dinner, I mean.’

  Galina, who was as heavy as her husband, bulge-hipped and droop-busted, but unlike Levin worked harder to disguise it, always dressing carefully in voluminous, folding dresses and smocks, was instantly alert, aware of two departures from the norm within the space of an hour. ‘A mission party?’ she probed tentatively.

  ‘Just the two of us.’

  Galina knew from Levin’s monitoring search that there was no visual surveillance. Confident therefore that the gesture was safe she nodded, knowingly, raising her voice in apparant anticipation. ‘That would be wonderful.’

  ‘Petr will be all right by himself,’ Levin insisted, in further guidance to her that their son was not to accompany them.

  Galina became sober-faced in more complete awareness, but for the benefit of the listening devices she maintained the necessary charade. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’ll be quite all right.’

  Levin decided upon the Cafe Europa on 54th Street, not talking within earshot of the cab driver on the way and politely asking when they arrived for their table to be changed, to ensure greater privacy. Galina had been involved from the beginning – that had been one of Levin’s insistences – so there was no necessity for detailed explanations. He still watched her intently as he spoke, alert for her reaction to match his earlier bewilderment.

  ‘This morning?’ she demanded, not able to believe it either.

  ‘Waiting for me when I arrived.’ He was glad of the waiter’s interruptio
n for drinks orders although it delayed the inevitable question by only a few seconds.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A fortnight.’

  Galina looked at him doubtfully, as if she had misheard. Then, flatly, she said: ‘Natalia is not due back from Moscow for another month.’

  ‘Do you think I need reminding of that!’

  ‘So it’s got to be a mistake.’

  ‘Which I can’t do anything to rectify.’

  ‘You must query it!’

  ‘How can I!’

  ‘How can you not!’

  ‘I can’t go back!’ protested Levin. ‘I’d wreck years of preparation. The punishment would be their using the association with the FBI as the very evidence to send me to a gulag. Maybe worse. I’m helpless: we’re both helpless.’

  The woman waited until the drinks were put before them and the waiter withdrew and then she said, quiet-voiced: ‘My darling Yevgennie Pavlovich. From the beginning, all those years ago in Moscow, I agreed to be in this with you. I agreed to defect with you and to live for the rest of my life in whatever unreal sort of existence I would be called upon to endure just to be with you. Because I love you. I’ll always love you. But I love our son and daughter just as much; maybe more, in some ways, because they’ll need greater protection than you do. Because they don’t know: they’ll never be able to know. You’re properly trained… a professional. For them it was always going to be a monumental upheaval, changing their lives, just like that…’ Galina stopped, snapping her fingers. She took up again: ‘I was prepared for that monumental upheaval: to help them and to explain as much as I could to them and maybe in time – a very long time – to make them understand you weren’t the traitor to your country they would believe you to be…’ She stopped, swallowing heavily from her drink, needing it. ‘I only ever made one condition. That we were never split. I will not do it… cannot do it, with Natalia still in Russia. Neither of us can.’