“Fact one,” Petrov began. “An accident at Tyuratam with two hundred and fifty dead. Cause: ignition malfunction in an R-7 booster.
“Two, a key technical specialist was transferred from the project a few weeks before the accident. There was subsequent speculation that had the specialist remained with the project, there would have been no accident.
“Three, Khrushchev assigns a special investigator to look into the project and the accident.
“Four, the investigator discovers that the specialist in question was transferred by orders signed by Khrushchev, but Khrushchev denies this, ergo, Five, the papers were forgeries and the transfer engineered by parties or persons unknown.
“Six, Khrushchev instructs his investigator to find the missing technician.
“Seven, the investigator is killed in an apparent hit-and-run accident in Moscow, and an autopsy reveals high levels of blood alcohol and aminazine.”
Finished, Petrov nodded to Gnedin.
“The combination of aminazine and alcohol is lethal,” the doctor said. “In this case, however, the victim was struck and killed by a vehicle before the chemical reaction had time to work.”
“Observations and questions?” Petrov asked.
“The man would have died if he hadn’t been run down?” Bailov asked.
“Yes,” Gnedin said.
“One hundred percent probability?” Ezdovo asked.
“Nothing is one hundred percent. Individual tolerances vary, but working backward from the blood level we can say with certainty that the dose was well above what’s generally accepted as lethal.”
“What about the hit-and-run driver?” Bailov asked.
“Unknown, and there were no witnesses,” Petrov said.
“Two people were killed,” Gnedin interjected. “Khrushchev’s man and a policeman.”
“What’s the connection?” Bailov asked.
“None known,” Petrov said.
“Where is the technician transferred from Tyuratam?” Talia asked.
“Missing,” Petrov told the group. “Vanished.”
“His records?”
“All false, if the investigator is to be believed.”
“No leads?”
“None we know of,” their leader said.
Talia sensed that Petrov was enjoying himself. “The technician’s name?” she asked.
“Lumbas,” Petrov said, “Villam Lumbas. At least that’s the name we have. It could be false.”
“And the dead investigator?”
“Roman Yegorovich Trubkin.”
Bailov sat up when he heard the name. “An air force major?”
Petrov nodded. “You know him?”
“Met him once at a GRU reception. He was with a striking woman—an actress, dancer, singer, something like that. He was a test pilot, and a rather important one, I gathered from the interest in him.”
“Perhaps the best pilot in the Red air force,” Petrov said. “Illness knocked him out of the cosmonaut program. He was to be the first into space, and instead was struck down by an automobile.”
“What’s the connection between the poisoning and the hit-and-run?” Ezdovo asked.
“That’s the wrong question,” Talia said too quickly. She saw the surprise on her husband’s face, then a deeper emotion, which he masked immediately; she knew she had hurt him, but to her own surprise she continued. “We should ask, Is there a connection?’”
“Yes,” Petrov said almost dreamily. “Exactly.”
“We can ask that all we want,” Gnedin said, “but there are no witnesses.”
“Speculate,” Petrov said. “What options do we have?”
Gnedin crossed his legs and leaned back. “Party A attempts to poison Trubkin, but before the poison does its work Party B unintentionally strikes and kills Trubkin, panics and drives away. Coincidence, no connection between events.”
“In which lane was the body found?” Bailov asked.
“The center lane,” Gnedin said, understanding the implication of his colleague’s question. In Moscow the center lane was reserved for the automobiles of high officials; those entitled to use it were not bound by laws governing other traffic, the center lane being more or less a no-man’s-land where pedestrians had no rights. Gnedin went on. “In which case Party B simply drove away, Trubkin’s accident being his problem alone and in this scenario Party B being someone entitled to the Chaika Lane.”
“Or someone with access to an automobile licensed for the lane,” Talia suggested.
“Other options,” Gnedin continued. “Parties A and B are different persons with a shared objective. Or it’s possible that the two parties are the same person.”
“The dead policeman could likewise be involved or not,” Bailov added.
Melko listened carefully to all of them but was having trouble concentrating. In a little more than a week he had gone from a zek with no future to a spa in Odessa, and the others had apparently likewise been plucked from their previous circumstances. He was not sure what to make of it, but Petrov had rescued him from certain death, and this was reason enough to listen. Whatever this was all about, he was now a part of it, which beat hell out of the alternative, no matter what the eventual outcome. As a leader of the urki he had survived by being flexible and adaptable, traits that he suspected would continue to serve him.
“I’m interested in the technician,” Gnedin said to Petrov. “Villam Lumbas? You said there was speculation that his absence from the project contributed to the accident.”
“The speculation was that if Lumbas had been there, the accident might have been avoided,” Talia said, this time correcting the doctor.
Again Petrov gave her a peculiar look. “She’s right,” he told the group. “Talia listens carefully; all of you must emulate her.”
Talia regretted her forthrightness and immediately went to Gnedin’s defense. “Your question, however, is appropriate. Did Lumbas’s absence contribute to the accident?”
“More than likely it was not causative,” Petrov said. Trubkin had told Khrushchev as much.
“But we can’t say his removal from the project was not intended to affect its outcome,” Talia said.
“I agree,” Petrov said and suddenly he barraged her with questions, none of which had answers. Who is Lumbas? Why was he there? Who moved him and why? And why that particular timing? Where was he sent afterward? Where is he now?
“He was moved on Khrushchev’s apparent orders,” Talia said. “If we consider the timing of the transfer we could conclude either that somebody wanted to make it appear that his absence contributed to the accident, or—a simpler possibility—that he was needed elsewhere more urgently.” She paused. “At this point neither case pertains. We need to find Lumbas either on paper or in the flesh.” She looked to Petrov for some sign of support.
“Khrushchev wants Lumbas found,” Petrov told them. “Trubkin claimed to be developing leads but shared few details, so we don’t have the advantage of his findings.”
“Assuming he had anything,” Melko said in his first foray into the discussion. “Every investigator claims he has something in the works even when it’s not true. It keeps his bosses off his back.” The comment drew stares from the others and Melko wished he had kept silent.
“Thank you,” Petrov said. “Melko has a good mind and experience different from ours. We can benefit from his abilities and knowledge.”
Talia remembered a time when Petrov had introduced her to a skeptical team with a similar speech. “Light draws the moth,” she said, and again she saw Petrov staring at her. Thinking aloud, she continued. “Who would have the power or audacity to transfer a man in the General Secretary’s name and from a project of the highest national importance?” She did not mention the KGB, but the allusion was understood. “We can safely assume that whoever is responsible is not alone, and has both access to and the cooperation of powerful people.”
“If you’re suggesting a conspiracy,” Petrov asked, “who
can be ruled out?”
“Only God,” Ezdovo said. “Some say he’s left this country to ruin itself.”
Bailov and Melko smiled, but Talia answered, “We rule out us, only us.”
Melko stepped forward and bowed to the group. “Begging your pardon, your worships, but when one speaks of conspiracy one thinks of crime—hand-in-glove. As it happens, I know something about crime, by the looks of it considerably more than any of you. When cops look at a crime they go for motive first, so I ask, who profits most from this act? Let’s start there.”
“Melko and Talia are both correct,” Petrov said. “We rule out ourselves, and we must determine a motive.”
“Without names motives are speculative, a creative exercise with no potential return,” Talia said. “It comes back to finding Lumbas.”
“And knowing what Trubkin was up to,” Gnedin added.
Talia nodded. “It might be possible to work backward from Trubkin’s death.”
“And Lumbas?” Petrov asked.
“Everything is connected in our country,” Talia answered. “Parents inform on children, children on teachers, teachers on administrators and so on, everyone pressured to tell the authorities something about someone, and every word is written down. This is our system, and somewhere in all this paper there will be trails to Lumbas. Perhaps there is a conspiracy, perhaps not. First we solve Trubkin and Lumbas and then we reassess.”
Petrov leaned slightly forward and pressed his hand to his stomach. It was a fleeting gesture, but Talia caught it and wondered what was wrong.
“Let’s sleep on this,” Petrov said, motioning for Melko and Gnedin to remain as the others filed out.
40 SUNDAY, MARCH 12, 1961, 1:20 A.M.Belgrade
Sylvia was in the flat and seemed ambivalent about his no-show for their dinner. “Miss me?” he ventured. For one of the few times in his life he had overridden his baser instincts and he wanted her to know about it, though he was not sure why.
She shook her head. “By your age most people have learned that the world doesn’t orbit them. When you didn’t show I figured you had a reason.”
Not the response he had hoped for. “I got picked up,” he said.
“Spare me the details,” she said, turning away.
“By your pal Inspector Peresic. I was on my way to meet you but she shanghaied me downstairs.”
“Why?”
He handed the photo to her. “That’s Frash on the left. Gent on the right is the stiff from your photo. Seems like our detective wants out and she’s willing to trade. She claims that the dead man’s a Russian who was connected to Frash, but we get the man’s name only if we help her disappear.” He then explained who Peresic’s husband was and the connection to Albania.
“Why?” Sylvia repeated.
“I just explained that.” He was pissed off.
“I mean why did she come to you?”
He weighed his answer. “It started out as a more traditional sort of deal,” he said, “and I don’t think she likes girls.”
She ignored the inference. “She knew who you were?”
“And that I was with you.”
“Maybe she’s setting us up.”
“Could be,” he said as he sat and kicked off his shoes. “But if she’s not and if this snapshot is legit, then just maybe this is a break. It seems worth the risk.”
“I’ll call Harry,” she said. “He can confirm Frash’s identity, but he’ll have to agree if we’re going to try to move her.”
The conversation and her tone were strictly business, which disappointed him.
41 SUNDAY, MARCH 12, 1961, 2:00 P.M.Paris
The Major entered the Père-Lachaise Cemetery through a gate off the avenue by the same name, walked slowly along cobblestone lanes through the confusing maze of tombs and monuments down to the main entrance more than a kilometer away, then backtracked to a pedestrian roundabout with a statue on a ten-meter-high pedestal. This position gave him easy access to the sprawling cemetery’s three exits and placed him in the middle of one of its only open areas, a perfect location from which to monitor the spot where he was to meet Lazer Kryeziu. It had been two and a half months since he had dispersed the organization, and though he still had some uneasiness about it, he had called for a meeting in order to assess the situation.
Setting down his wooden box, the Major took out his painting supplies and assembled a portable easel. He smelled incense burning nearby and saw mourners and tourists moving along the roads and paths and between the graves, maps or flowers in hand.
Nearby there were three other painters and a young photographer posing a child against a gray tomb discolored by pigeon shit. There were always people near this spot, which was why he had chosen it. With so many people packed into a cluttered landscape there would be several escape routes.
In recent weeks he had carefully tapped every source he had in an effort to get a line on what Shehu and Hoxha were up to; arrests had apparently ceased in Albania, but so far there had been no known retaliation outside the country. That Shehu would retaliate was not in doubt; it was only a matter of when and where. He would aim his blow at the movement itself, and if the past was a predictor, he would go for the maximum body count as a blunt message to others who dared challenge his power.
Normally for a clandestine meeting the Major liked to arrive at a rendezvous at the same moment as those he would meet, but in this business it wasn’t good to get set in your ways. This time he was in place and making an effort to look like a painter a full two hours early. Probably there was no need to worry, but survival demanded attention to detail. People died as easily on a sunny day with the birds singing as on any other. Too many people had a false perception of death, expecting it to telegraph its awful arrival. It seldom did.
The Major spotted a potential problem several minutes before Kryeziu was scheduled to arrive. He had never seen the man before, but as soon as he saw the muscular frame, alarms sounded in his head. The man had a passive face but intense eyes and he was sweating heavily. Why? It was sunny but still cool. Running? Nerves? Whatever the cause, it wasn’t normal. The Major dabbed his brush in a dollop of burnt umber, rolled it until the bristles formed a fine point, then carefully drew a thin line along a shadow on his paper. The stranger had his hands in his pockets and stood perfectly still, but he could see that the man was watching for someone, looking without looking, the sign of a professional.
Eventually Kryeziu came into sight, making his way directly to the meeting place, but the stranger seemed to pay no attention to him and this relieved the Major for an instant; the man had probably been hurrying to be on time for a tryst. Ruled by his dick, he decided, typically French.
Kryeziu pushed up a shirtsleeve, nervously checked his watch and lit a cigarette. Below him in the roundabout, a young woman in a long tan coat and red boots approached. The Major saw him smile; then the woman apparently said something that froze his colleague’s expression. He tried to not look directly at them as an old woman on crutches came up beside Kryeziu, stopped and wiped her eyes with a white handkerchief. Then everything seemed to shift to slow motion. The woman with red boots took a step toward Kryeziu. The Major saw a pistol come up. No silencer. The young woman held the weapon in two hands and crouched slightly, knees bent, legs apart for balance. The heavyset stranger moved several feet closer to the Major as the first of three quick shots echoed through the area. Initially the Major looked the opposite way of the shots, then glanced back over his right shoulder. Kryeziu was down on his back, one leg bent, the other wiggling violently as the young woman stood over him, looking down, her pistol held high over her head with both hands; then she walked slowly in the direction from which she had come. Onlookers threw themselves on the ground or ducked behind mausoleums as she passed.
The muscular man walked quickly downhill, paralleling the woman’s path, while the old woman beside Kryeziu poked his body with a crutch, then shrieked, which panicked people as much as the shots.
> The Major abandoned his painting gear, walked to the east entrance of the cemetery then down the rue de la Réunion and south toward the Seine. Two police sedans raced past him toward the cemetery, their sirens caterwauling. Shehu had struck; now to find Ali and finish what had been botched in Belgrade.
42 SUNDAY, MARCH 12, 1961, 4:20 P.M.Belgrade
Harry Gabler looked as if he had not shaved since the last time they had seen him, and he was clearly perturbed that they had used a priority signal to fetch him back to the embassy. “This better be good,” he said from behind his desk. “My wife hit the roof when I told her I had to come back to the office.”
Valentine put the photograph in front of him. “Frash?”
The station chief picked up the photo. “Where the hell did you get this?”
“Is it Frash?”
“Does Uncle Miltie like gingham dresses?”
“Recognize his companion?”
Gabler contorted his face in concentration.
Valentine placed the mortuary photograph in front of the CIA man. “This help?”
Gabler placed the photos side by side and studied them. After several seconds he grunted and looked up. “Vicki’s stiff. The Albanian, right?”
“Russian,” Valentine corrected.
“Says who?”
“Peresic.”
Gabler looked at Sylvia. “You saw her again?”
“She approached him last night,” she said with a nod toward her partner.
Valentine interrupted. “She wants a one-way ticket to the Land of the Big PX, and a new identity.”
“In exchange for what?”
“This photo and the Russian’s name. We get the name when we tell her it’s a go.”
Gabler scratched his chin. “It’s not that easy. Have we got other options?”
“She says all the way or no way. She wants a new name, no trail and gimme a life on the lone prairie.”
“Is it worth it?”
The Domino Conspiracy Page 19
