The Domino Conspiracy

by Joseph Heywood

  In any event the CIA’s interest in psychology had historical roots. During World War II the OSS had used psychiatrists and doctors to construct a profile of Adolf Hitler, and it had proved itself as a predictive instrument. By comparison, the tests Venema was using made the OSS effort look childish, a Model T next to a Jaguar.

  “What sort of problem?”

  “Can’t find him.”

  “Not necessarily a problem. What evidence is there?”

  Arizona tapped his belly. “The only evidence I need is rumbling around in here.”

  “Why call me?”

  “He’s your creation.”

  The psychiatrist smiled. “When there’s pressure, pronouns get altered. Our creation,” he reminded his host, “not mine alone.”

  “Which is why we’re going to do something about it. Frash is gone and we need to find him. You’re going back and vet the bastard, but this time by the book.”

  “You have investigators who specialize in such things. It’s not my field.”

  “If he’s gone sour, we have a problem. You said to hire him, so you find out who and what he is.” Arizona was shaking.

  Venema set down his glass. “I can’t just drop everything. I have other obligations.”

  “Find the time,” Arizona barked as he stalked out of the tack room.

  31 WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1961, 10:25 A.M.Belgrade

  The Prince Marko coffee house had a certain Texas style, meaning that it defied most standards of good taste, which was why Valentine liked it. It had high ceilings and narrow, lead-glass windows, but little light came in because sleet was falling from swirling gray clouds. Inside the front entrance was a five-foot-high statue of the establishment’s namesake. The bronze and enamel likeness of the famous prince had a bushy mustache, black eyes, heavy eyebrows, prominent cheekbones, a fur hat and a tunic of gray wolf skins.

  A bearded waiter came over and said something in a language Valentine did not understand. “American,” Valentine said.

  The man nodded and shifted to a crude English. “Legend,” he said. “Prince Marko and spirits are the same. His horse has name of Sarac and can speak. Marko and Sarac drinking wine happily together many times. Sarac is fastest horse of all. Together they fight Turks.” The waiter snarled as he spit out the name of the historical enemy of all Balkan peoples. “Marko,” he concluded by holding up three fingers, “three hundred years when he die. Very old,” he added; then, making a fist and stiffening his forearm, “but still very good with womans.”

  Valentine smiled. In truth Marko had been overwhelmed by the Turks and had become their vassal. Later he led military operations for them against Christians, just as some Serbs had joined the Nazis and turned on their own countrymen, yet he was credited with providing the example that spawned Serbian independence. Somehow the statue reminded him of the elusive Albert Frash. How much of a gap would there be between what Frash was and what he was supposed to be?

  Valentine sat in an upholstered chair near a window and nursed a cup of Turkish coffee. Sylvia had gone to the embassy to find out about access to the Company’s computer. Every piece of information collected by the CIA was in the central data bank; the Russians had their own device, which served the same purpose, but theirs was considerably larger, originally bought from IBM. Sylvia hoped the computer would cough up more data on Frash, but she also suspected that only Arizona could access the information.

  There were holes in Frash’s service record; all the time was generally accounted for, but the details were sparse. Were all records like this? Sylvia didn’t know; she had never seen her own. Frash had been in Paris for five months, then moved to Belgrade and an entirely different division, the most secret and powerful Soviet–East Europe group that Company people called “S.E.” What sort of asset would warrant such attention? A related question: Who was Frash’s case officer? Given the circumstances, Sylvia was certain that the control would be special and high in rank—maybe Arizona himself, given his interest in Frash, but he had neglected to tell them this. Why? Most important, why did the Company—or at least Arizona—want a retread like Valentine to investigate Frash’s disappearance? It didn’t make sense.

  Valentine was on his third cup of coffee when Sylvia walked into the café and looked around. Her hair was wet and matted, and she blew on her hands to warm them. Spotting him, she walked over and slumped in a chair next to him.

  “Get through?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I saw Gabler. Said he doesn’t have access to the computer; all requests have to go through the home office. He also said he’s been doing a lot of thinking about us and has decided that it looks to him as if we’re just as out of it on Frash as he is. Our lack of information sticks in his craw because it goes against SOP. It’s his view that Frash somehow never added up. It’s not like the Company to give somebody such a long leash.”

  “You agree?”

  “Most of my experience is in a different theater of operation. We’re usually on short lines, with back-up and control always nearby. Frash’s freedom is entirely outside my experience, but that doesn’t mean anything. S.E. has its own ways and runs a closed shop.”

  “Which means?”

  “That Gabler’s decided to get off the fence.” She put a standard business envelope in front of Valentine. It contained a typewritten document with handwritten editing marks. “Filed today by Reuters based on an Albanian Press Agency report broadcast on Radio Tirana.”

  Valentine read slowly. Enver Hoxha, the General Secretary of the Albanian Workers Party, had alleged U.S. complicity in a plot to overthrow his regime. According to Hoxha, the governments of Yugoslavia and Greece had conspired with the American Sixth Fleet and groups of Albanian traitors, all of whom had been arrested and would be tried according to Albanian law. The dictator accused President Kennedy of “preparing for the Third World War.” The coup attempt was said to have occurred “recently,” but the report offered no specific date.

  “So?”

  “A gift from Harry,” Sylvia said.

  “Harry?” Valentine arched an eyebrow.

  “You can wipe that look off your face,” she said with disgust. “Harry says the Albanians make this sort of wild-ass claim from time to time; usually it’s rhetorical fog used as an excuse to kill Hoxha’s latest political foes.”

  “Why tell us about this one?”

  “Last summer Harry’s people reported a buildup in weapons in Kosovo Province, which is right on the border. Nearly a million Albanians there, a natural conduit for trouble in both directions.”

  “Related to this?” Valentine asked, pointing to the wire story.

  “Someplace between maybe and probably. Usually, Harry says, the would-be invaders have loose tongues. Last summer their usual sources disappeared or went mute. This was the tip-off that maybe something was simmering.”

  “What’s all this got to do with Frash?”

  “Timing. He showed up, and shortly after that there was action in Kosovo. You can’t ignore the obvious.”

  “Coincidence.”

  “What have we got to rule it out?”

  Valentine mulled it over. They knew Frash was handling an important asset, either sent from Paris to do the job, or, he suddenly realized, perhaps because it began in Paris and moved to Yugoslavia. “Would the Company back that sort of thing?” he asked, pointing at the story.

  Sylvia knew about Cuba and what was scheduled there. “Wouldn’t rule it out,” she said, though the strategic significance of an Albanian operation eluded her.

  “The Albanians are just a bunch of pissants.”

  “They fought Hitler to a standstill,” Sylvia reminded him.

  II

  Awakenings

  32 SATURDAY, MARCH 4, 1961, 9:40 A.M.Novosibirsk Region, Siberia

  It was a clear, blue day, the temperature so low that snowflakes sparkled like gemstones and snapped underfoot. Petrov was in the exercise area, his arms parallel to the ground, flapping and tw
isting like a flightless bird. He exercised every day, two hours in the morning, two hours in the afternoon. Sometimes Melko joined him for the afternoon session, but the other urki regarded exercise as purposeless and avoided it on principle.

  Once in a while Lt. Col. Kurile Valinchuk, the camp commander, walked with Petrov. Valinchuk was in his late forties, badly overweight, an alcoholic, short, with his head shaved bald, bad teeth and a low voice that sounded as if it were filtered through coarse gravel. He had been a hero at Stalingrad, and for this the Red Army kept him on, the military’s version of patronage to those who delivered when it mattered most.

  But Petrov preferred to exercise alone. Compared with most facilities in the gulag system, Camp No. 9 was spacious, its population small for the available space. In some camps two hundred men were packed into a barracks no bigger than what they had for a mere three dozen.

  This morning was especially beautiful. Several ptarmigan in their winter-white plumage were lined up under the bottom strand of the barbed wire. The guards in the corner were apparently sunstruck because ptarmigan foolish enough to venture into the open were usually shot immediately and cooked and eaten soon thereafter.

  Petrov was within ten minutes of finishing his walk when he sensed distant vibrations in the air. Melko immediately sauntered out of the barracks and approached, his eyes toward the sky.

  “You feel it?” Melko asked. He was wearing a black wool shapka, earflaps up, an oversized shirt, no coat and high canvas boots wrapped with felt strips.

  “Helicopters,” Petrov said.

  “Strange. Winter maneuvers?” Melko was driven by curiosity and always seeking explanations for even the most minor phenomena.

  “Perhaps,” Petrov said quietly. Other prisoners began to emerge from the barracks to watch the horizon.

  Soon the vibrations turned to sound, and Petrov saw a line of dark specks over a low ridge. “Eight,” he said. Melko grunted. Though the craft were still too distant for men with ordinary eyesight, the two men had counted the same number.

  When the helicopters got closer, they began circling overhead and spread out. Petrov saw that they had black canisters attached to the inside of their starboard skids and no markings anywhere. The lead machine dove hard and set down in a clearing near the commandant’s cabin. When Valinchuk stumbled off his porch toward it, he was met by two armed men in fur shapkas and black fatigues who gestured at him to retreat. Seconds later a short figure in a bulky dark coat emerged from the belly of the helicopter. As Petrov watched, the solitary figure traipsed through the snow toward the cabin, stomped his feet on the porch and disappeared inside.

  By now all the prisoners were in the yard, standing behind Melko and Petrov. “What the fuck’s going on?” one of them asked.

  “Shut up,” Melko growled over his shoulder. “What the fuck is going on?” he whispered to Petrov, who simply shook his head. “Whatever it is, it’s unofficial, off the books.”

  “I saw.” Melko watched the seven airborne machines bank slightly as the line hovered over the tree line to the west. “Experienced pilots,” he said. “They hold position without flaw. I don’t like the smell of this,” he added. Melko was suspicious of everything the authorities did.

  Minutes passed; then Valinchuk came trotting through the snow, screaming for his guards to open the gate to the compound. “Petrov!” he screamed. “Hurry, for Christ’s sake!”

  “What do you want?” Petrov asked calmly, holding his ground.

  “Don’t ask stupid questions,” Valinchuk shouted, his chest heaving, breath exploding in small clouds of vapor. “Just move your ass, move your ass.” He windmilled his left arm as a signal for Petrov to follow him.

  “Whatever it is, it seems to have gotten Comrade Valinchuk’s attention,” Melko said. It was amusing to see the commandant so flustered.

  “Just come.” Valinchuk grabbed Petrov’s sleeve and began pulling him forward. Melko tried to follow, but the commandant stepped between the two men to block his path. “Only Petrov.”

  “I’m the boss inside the wire,” Melko said.

  “Asshole!” Valinchuk roared, still pulling Petrov toward the gate.

  “Hey, Melko,” one of the prisoners shouted. “Maybe the commandant’s wife didn’t give him any pussy this morning.” The men laughed until Melko glared at them.

  “What’s going on?” another prisoner called out.

  Melko didn’t know and didn’t like the feeling that was beginning to ripple along his spine.

  When Petrov reached the porch of the commandant’s cabin, two huge men were waiting, their Kalashnikovs at the ready. Valinchuk accompanied the prisoner only to the base of the plank steps, then stopped.

  “Up here,” the wide-shouldered guard on the left side said. His face was covered by a black knit ski mask; his uniform had no insignia. “Three feet from the wall, spread your legs, lean forward, heels of your hands flat on the wall,” he ordered in a voice accustomed to being obeyed.

  Petrov walked slowly onto the porch and did as he was instructed. The second guard slung his rifle and frisked him. It was a thorough, professional job; the man missed nothing, even pushing his finger into Petrov’s boot tops. “Clean,” he announced to his partner.

  “Stand up, parasite,” the first man said. “Inside.”

  Petrov entered and the guards followed. The room reeked of urine, cabbage and wet fur. There was a wooden chair in the center of the room. A short man stood with his back to Petrov, urinating into a low wooden barrel.

  “Sit,” one of the guards said; then both of them stepped outside and closed the door.

  The man in the corner turned, shook his penis several times, tucked it in, buttoned his trousers, moved to the only upholstered chair in the room, sat down, peeled off his ski mask and used it to wipe sweat off his face.

  Petrov stared. The man was fat and bald, save for a few tufts of white hair near his ears; there was a gap in his front teeth and moles and warts all over his face. “You remember me?” he asked in Russian with a heavy Ukrainian accent.

  “You were younger,” Petrov said.

  “So were you,” Nikita Khrushchev said with a laugh. “We have no control over the passage of time. In this regard we are all equals.”

  “Some are more equal than others. Time has been generous to you.”

  “And you, Citizen Petrov. You’re still alive.”

  “A matter of luck.”

  Khrushchev laughed. “Bullshit. It’s a matter of planning. There are only a few individuals who are true assets to their country. In the old days we punished indiscriminately, but now we are wiser and life is not so disposable. Things have changed while you’ve been contemplating your sins against the state.”

  “You must have a good reason to come so far.”

  The General Secretary eyed the dark little man, who seemed unintimidated. This was a good sign, but it was important to impress upon him who was in charge. “Your rehabilitation is complete. It’s time for you to return to a productive life.”

  Petrov said impassively, “I feel no different now than I did when I was sent here.”

  Khrushchev stood and stretched his short legs. “The helicopter is a wonderful device, but the vibrations twist my muscles into knots.” He patted his neck with the ski mask. “What you feel is irrelevant. There’s never been any question of your patriotism. You simply had the wrong benefactor.”

  “It was my impression that in the times you allude to we shared the same benefactor.”

  Khrushchev laughed. “Technically speaking, you’re correct, but politics require clear-cut winners and losers.”

  “I’m not a politican.”

  “We’re all politicans, Petrov. Stalin fell, so you fell. It works that way. I had the foresight to distance myself from the bastard before it was too late, and I had the support of the army, which was a matter of foreplanning. Now it’s time for your return. Your services are required.”

  “I’m an old man.”

&nbs
p; “As am I.”

  “I will listen.”

  Khrushchev laughed. “Of course you will listen, but now let’s get into that infernal machine. It’s a long ride to Novosibirsk and I have important meetings to prepare for.”

  “I would like to hear the proposition now.” Petrov crossed his arms calmly.

  Khrushchev smiled. “The proposition, as you call it, is as follows: if you remain here, you will no longer be able to listen to anything.” His tone was friendly, in direct contrast to the message. “Camps such as this drain our national resources. The inhabitants are worse than parasites. Keeping them alive is expensive when a bullet costs only a few kopecks. This camp is about to be decommissioned. Today. This morning.” Khrushchev gripped Petrov’s arm and leaned forward. “Don’t be sad. Even our capitalist friends execute their parasites. It’s a good policy.”

  “And if I choose to remain?”

  Khrushchev smiled. “It’s entirely up to you, comrade. I offer the gift of choice; what you do with it is your own business, but when my machine lifts off, that will be it.”