The Mercenary

by Paul Vidich

“For what?”

  “Zyuganov.” Posner rose and closed the bedroom door, revealing on the back of the door a photograph of a younger General Zyuganov with his wife and two young children on a picnic blanket spread on a lush green meadow in front of a Scottish castle. “He was thirty-six when this was taken. He’d just been promoted and summoned to headquarters from London. Perhaps you recognize his daughter, Natalya. She is eight years old in the photograph, but you can already see her defiance.”

  Garin felt the long arm of coincidence at work. Nothing surprised him that night, but later he would write in his diary that he’d been startled to discover that Natalya was General Zyuganov’s daughter.

  Garin leaned forward to look at the photograph and then settled back in his chair. He had admitted too much. His memories of Zyuganov returned like bad dreams. There was no room for attachment in his work, but he had been younger, and he’d made that mistake. Their conversations along Moscow River had surprised him. He had come to respect the man, if he was honest with himself, but that wasn’t something he put in his reports. Wise, troubled, and eloquent in five languages. He had admired the man’s humanity and came to know his fears.

  Posner said, “We have surveillance photos of the two of you sitting on a bench by the river. Two spies sharing a friendly conversation.”

  “I reported my contacts,” Garin said with a grunt. “I’m sure he did as well. That was the protocol. It was our job to probe each other. It was our job to meet.” He glared at Posner. “And I’ll report this meeting.”

  “We’ll see how you feel about that when we’re done. Why did you meet Zyuganov?”

  “He asked me to defect.”

  Posner was skeptical. “What’s your real name?”

  “Aleksander Garin.”

  Posner drained his glass and poured himself another. Almost as an afterthought, he raised his glass, offering Garin one, but Garin shook his head.

  “It will be a long night,” Posner said. “Why did you come back?”

  “Human rights work,” Garin said.

  “Stupid answers.” Comrade Posner’s demeanor hardened and his eyes narrowed. “You are in a small box. This evening, the photographs we took, your history. I have enough to expel you. You will be gone in forty-eight hours, and I will get a big commendation. And you will have to explain yourself to Langley.”

  Posner’s expression was fastidiously unpleasant. “That would suit me, but it wouldn’t satisfy me. I need more than that. I need your cooperation. I see I have your attention.” Comrade Posner paused. “The CIA and the KGB have men who abuse their positions, corrupt men who are promoted because they tear colleagues down. I am sure you know men like this. Perhaps you are one. Our politics may be different, but our sins are all human.”

  Posner lifted his silver cigarette holder and gazed at the lengthening ash, which he knocked into his palm, adding more to what he already held. “Each day, we wake up devising ways to defeat each other. But we have a common adversary: corruption.”

  Posner stepped forward and stood over Garin, his lips pressed, eyes narrow. “I want Talinov.” He spoke the name like a curse. “Chernenko is dead. Things will change. The KGB will rid itself of corrupt men, and Talinov is on the list. He must be discredited to the deputy chairman for wrongly executing Zyuganov. I want your cooperation.”

  “Why this?” Garin nodded at the bed.

  “Jeopardy, to focus the mind.” Posner leaned forward. “I will tell you something, but only because I want your cooperation. We are enemies, yes, but there can be cooperation between enemies if it serves a common purpose. Talinov is such a purpose. He betrayed General Zyuganov and has incriminated colleagues to advance himself, and if needed, he would put a gun to your head. A corrupt and evil man. He likes to say he plays Chopin, as if that absolves him. Our side is better off without him. You will also benefit. What I need is evidence of his crimes—evidence only you can provide.”

  “I don’t have evidence.”

  “You may not know what you have. If you were the dissolute, hard-drinking embassy employee you claim, you’d be sweating by now, or screaming innocence, but look at you. So calm, so guilty. So well trained. Your cleverness incriminates you. I had my doubts, but Natalya was certain. I see she is right. You are CIA.” Posner’s head shifted side to side like a viper. “Why are you in Moscow?”

  Garin didn’t respond.

  “Your presence will be of interest to my colleagues, but that’s not why I have you here.” Posner looked around the bedroom before his eyes settled again on Garin. “Talinov is Second CD and I am First CD. The famous KGB compartmentalization keeps us ignorant of each other’s work, but I hear gossip, or have drinks with a mutual colleague who lets something slip, or see documents I’m not supposed to see. I have heard Talinov thinks the embassy is running an asset inside the GRU or the KGB, a senior military specialist. There is a list of men who use a particular copier that is going around. I am not on the list, but men who work for me are.” Posner stared at Garin. “Are you his handler? Is that why you’re here?”

  Garin raised an eyebrow. “If I were, would I be so stupid to let myself fall into this trap?”

  Posner went for his drink but found the glass empty. He paced the room nervously, like a caged zoo lion. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”

  Garin saw in Comrade Posner the brooding anxiety of a man on death row. Posner’s tired eyes and the beads of sweat on his upper lip helped Garin believe what he was hearing, that he was being recruited by one side against the other in a power struggle among rival KGB factions. He tried to imagine the contention and distrust that had prompted this extraordinary circumstance. Garin possessed a tenacious mind, and once he heard something that he didn’t fully understand, he didn’t banish the problem to forget it. He kept the mystery alive, knowing that unless he had a satisfactory answer, he was in danger of being drawn deeper into a labyrinth of deceit. Suddenly, he had the uncomfortable sense that he had lived this moment before. A similar room. Friendly blandishments from a clever interrogator. Garin looked at Comrade Posner. He saw an erudite, self-important Russian with nervous eyes.

  Garin shrugged. “What else?”

  “A common interest.”

  “We have no common interests.”

  Posner nodded at the bedroom door. “She is a common interest.”

  It was later, when he reflected on Posner’s comment, that he understood Posner’s affectionate reference was a threat.

  “It is in your interest—the CIA’s interest—to discredit Talinov,” Posner said. “If it could be proved that Zyuganov was falsely accused and wrongly executed, Talinov would be exposed, tried, and punished.” He watched Garin. “I see you are skeptical of my motives. And you should be. It’s an unusual request. The only way you could surprise me is to say that General Zyuganov wasn’t a traitor.”

  “A traitor to what?” Garin asked. “Family? Russia? The Party? Maybe he was a CIA asset.” Garin smiled at the confusion he saw on Posner’s face. Lying had always come naturally to Garin. Falsehoods had been his childhood protection from a Russian mother who lied to her American husband. Lies, he had discovered, were more helpful and sometimes more satisfying. They gave him power. Lies kept people from being able to plunder his truths. As a consequence, he had developed a taste for secrecy and a facility for lying. And he knew that the appearance of a lie could sometimes be more effective than the lie itself.

  “I don’t believe it,” Posner said flatly. “But if it was true, and you would know, there is still reason you would want Talinov discredited.”

  The two men looked at each other, and a communion of interests was understood. It was a rare moment of agreement that had nothing to do with trust and everything to do with self-interest.

  “I need evidence,” Posner said. “The men who made your visa can forge the incriminating documents I need.”

  “Are we done here?”

  “No.”

  Garin was already moving to the door. “Wha
t else?”

  “You are getting a bargain. If Talinov is removed, your asset is protected. I am told he is an important person.”

  “You think this puts you in a position to make requests?” Garin’s hand swept the room.

  “Yes, I believe it does.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Money.”

  “For what?”

  “For me.”

  Garin scoffed. “You should be paying me.” Then he cocked his head. “Who do you work for?”

  “Myself.”

  Garin heard in his abrupt answer, carelessly thrown out like a boast, a truth. Greed. It didn’t surprise Garin. There was never enough money for the man with an appetite. “How much?”

  Posner threw out a number.

  Garin laughed.

  “How important is he to the CIA?” Posner asked.

  “Half.”

  Posner shook his head. “I’m paid no better than you. I can’t live on my shitty pension.”

  Garin was silent, giving the impression it was a hard bargain.

  “How much is on you?” Posner asked.

  Garin produced a bundle of US currency he was carrying for GAMBIT. “A down payment,” he said, handing over the envelope and watching Posner count. “Don’t contact me,” he added. “I will communicate through her, and she will pass along everything: account number, wire instructions, evidence against Talinov. Everything through her.”

  Garin slipped out of the building and stayed in shadow, away from the streetlight, a precaution until he was certain no one was waiting to follow. His breath plumed in the night air. He regretted leaving home without his gloves and wondered what else he’d forgotten. He went down the list of things he hadn’t foreseen, all of which had changed the game. This had been his life too long. He darted into the street and hopped on an empty, brightly lit tram.

  Later, he drafted a summary of the meeting for Mueller, adding at the end: I’ve been away six years, but nothing has changed. Personal survival among KGB rivals is still a blood sport. Middle-aged intelligence officers look forward to becoming pensioners with a dacha and a small vegetable garden and maybe, if they’re lucky, a nest egg of hard currency.

  13 METKA

  TWO DAYS LATER, GARIN RECEIVED an urgent note from Mueller instructing him to contact Ronnie, who would give him after-hours access to the Bubble’s secure telephone.

  Garin stood alone in the dark conference room. Waiting. The phone rang almost exactly at the time arranged. He lifted the black handset on the second ring, but there was no one on the line. Static. He hung up. It was then that he saw an office light on at the end of the hall. Someone in Moscow Station was working late. The telephone rang again.

  “Hello?”

  “Alek, it’s me.”

  Garin took his eyes off the office light. He had rehearsed how he would explain what had happened, and he’d decided what he could say and what he would avoid. “You got my list of his requests?” he asked.

  His note had been explicit. He wanted a classified internal KGB memo that sat in CIA archives altered to implicate Talinov in General Zyuganov’s treason; he asked that Technical Services falsify coded transcripts that rewrote the history of General Zyuganov’s defection; he’d specified dates, paper stock, and the exact Soviet stamp.

  “What’s going on?” Mueller demanded.

  “Posner wants to discredit Talinov. There’s a power struggle inside the KGB. Who knows what’s really going on, but they’re rivals and it is unstable, and I have been sucked in. Understand? What Posner doesn’t know is that the documents I want Technical Services to create will do the opposite of what he wants. They will implicate him.”

  “In what?”

  “Does it matter? It will buy time. A few weeks, maybe more. And there is something else. He wants two hundred fifty thousand dollars wired to a Swiss bank account.” Garin waited for a response. “George, you’re quiet. You’ve never been this quiet.”

  “What’s the money for?”

  “Him.”

  “Christ. That’s crazy.”

  “He’s corrupt. What choice do we have? He matched my visa to old photos in their files. He knows I’m CIA, but he doesn’t know why I’m here, and he hasn’t connected me to my earlier work. We’re buying his silence.”

  “GAMBIT?”

  “He’s heard rumors. He suspects something.”

  “What?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Posner wants to make it look like he’s recruited me, but it’s a cover to explain his contact. He’s blackmailing me, putting me at risk. Play it out. Whose idea was it? Nothing happens by chance. You were set up, blown, expelled. I am being set up.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  “Get me the documents,” Garin said. “Wire the money. It will buy time.”

  “How much?”

  “We can’t wait for Border Guard Day. We need to move up exfiltration. You’re quiet again. Do you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear. Shit.” A beat. “You have to go dark,” Mueller said.

  “And the plane tickets to Leningrad?”

  “You’ll leave by train. Finland is what they’ll expect. You’ll travel to Uzhgorod, and we’ll pick you up on the Czech side.”

  “And just walk across the border?”

  “We’ve used a smuggler before. He’ll drive you across.”

  “When?”

  Mueller threw out a date. “If you can’t make that date, I’ll be there the next night. Same procedure. Same time. We’ll be there every night for a week until you show up. The Czech driver will pick you up at the train station. He’ll have a false trunk that will hide GAMBIT. You’ll ride up front with the wife. Understand? You have to get out of Moscow.”

  “How will I know him?”

  “We’ll get you what you need.”

  “How?”

  “Ronnie. She’ll be your contact.”

  “You trust her?”

  “Only her. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Mueller paused. “This is the last time we talk until we meet at the border. Is there a drop point she can use?”

  Garin went down the list of places he was familiar with in Moscow. He considered the postal box by the metro station, but it was too public. It was suitable for messages, but there was no place to leave documents. He rejected the radiator in the apartment lobby where GAMBIT left film canisters. He couldn’t risk a mix-up.

  “There is a small church at 25 Mayakovsky Street,” Garin said. “Below a Madonna and child icon, there is a gap between the wall and a cabinet. Tickets and documents go there. I’ve used it before. It’s safe.”

  In the silence that followed Garin knew Mueller was writing.

  “Leave your apartment tonight,” Mueller said. “Stay someplace they won’t look. Tell GAMBIT there has been a change of plans. Do you hear me? Go dark.”

  Garin felt fear settle in like an old friend who’d come to visit. Things were not happening the way he had foreseen, but he’d been here before. Since early the previous week, many unexpected dangers had required an extraordinary faith in himself. That greedy wretch Posner, making his sudden demand and turning his job upside down. He had arrived in Moscow knowing he might be recognized, but he’d thought it a remote possibility. He had never expected chance to triumph over a reasonable plan.

  “Go dark with what?” Garin demanded. “Where? What money?”

  “There is a wall safe in my old office. I doubt Rositske changed the combination. You’ll find what you need there.” Mueller was emphatic. “Stay away from the embassy. Wait for Ronnie to make the drop, and then get GAMBIT to the Czech border. Understand? You’re not safe.”

  When he stepped out of the Bubble, Garin saw the office light at the end of the hallway go out. Garin turned the doorknob of Mueller’s office and pulled the door shut, closing it softly. A muted click. He stood absolutely still in the darkness, his ears a tuning fork for danger. The alto clap of a woman’s he
els approached down the hallway, passed the door, and then faded on their way to the air-lock entrance.

  Garin went to work quickly. His butane lighter illuminated the combination safe on the wall, and Mueller had been correct about Rositske’s laziness. Garin emptied the emergency pouch on the desk and sorted the contents. He took the envelope of cash, a dozen krugerrands, and the list of emergency Moscow contacts, safe houses that wouldn’t be safe now. He considered the Colt pistol. He knew that if it came to the point where he needed to defend himself, he was probably already a dead man and a casual interrogation that uncovered the pistol would doom him. But there was comfort in knowing he was armed. He stuffed the pistol under his belt and put an extra magazine in his pocket. He pondered the cyanide capsule. He had known one compromised Russian spy who’d opted for suicide over torture, but he was not that brave.

  * * *

  GARIN’S LUCK HAD been on a good run, but everyone’s luck runs out—the car that careens around the corner as you step off the curb, the aircraft engine that fails on your flight home. How many times had death been his companion in a dream, his corpse in a body bag at a remote border crossing? Long ago he had tried and failed to banish those images. He reminded himself that his work in Moscow wasn’t his most dangerous. His work in Hungary during Prague Spring had been more daunting; his work in Beirut had been more terrifying. But every job had its moment of truth, when the unexpected met the unforgiving, forcing him to improvise.

  It happened to him as he passed through the air lock and waited for the elevator, having impatiently pushed the button twice. At the sound of the arriving elevator, he patted his chest, a tic, to confirm that the things he’d taken were safely hidden. The elevator doors opened to reveal Helen Walsh, standing in the back. It would be hard to say who was more startled and equally hard to say who did a better job of hiding that surprise.

  “I thought I was the last one on the floor,” she said.

  Garin knew that he had only to muddy her judgment, not change it. “I had to call Langley.”

  “How did you get up here? I’ll have to report this, Alek. Give me a reason why I shouldn’t. A legitimate reason.”