Ivanov was supposed to be a graybeard, sixtyish, short and stocky, as Russians tended to be. They were a diminutive people, but novelists and Hollywood had enlarged them in the collective psyche.
The room above the bookstore had shelves of dusty books with faded spines. Frash had entered to find a man’s broad back; having seen it, an alarm sounded in his head and he made for the door. “Wait,” a voice said in high-speed Parisian French and he had turned to find a tall, muscular, dark-eyed figure with hair the color of obsidian. The man wore the soiled coveralls of a common laborer and a spreading grin. The eyes were vaguely familiar. “You don’t recognize your own brother?” the stranger asked, opening his arms. “Come give me a proper greeting or I’ll turn you over my knee.”
Frash was dumbfounded. His brother? “We thought you were dead.”
“So I am,” Myslim said, “to most, and would be to the rest if they had their way.” He laughed.
It had been too much to take in. “How do I know that you are who you say you are?”
His brother gave him a photograph identical with one in his mother’s albums and a small card with a black double-headed eagle and crossed sabers above it, the symbol of the Albanian Freedom Front.
“We thought you were killed in the war.”
For days Frash had grilled Myslim about his past in an unbrotherly way. In retrospect, sitting here among the rocks, he now realized that Myslim had been circumspect in his answers, professionally evasive, yet seemingly forthcoming. But it was information that only seemed to be. Myslim had spent his life at war: with the French underground, then with Tito against the Nazis, soon thereafter with Hoxha against the Nazis, and eventually with the AFF against Hoxha. In the front he was known as the Major, a rank he had never held. Frash did not immediately embrace Myslim’s story, but he later used the Front to establish that such a person existed; then his contacts identified Myslim as the man, and eventually he had accepted it.
By then Myslim had brought him Villam Lumbas, late of the Soviet Rocket Force, who was in Belgrade. A brother’s gift to his only brother, the half notwithstanding. There had been a quick trip to Belgrade to evaluate Lumbas and a long interview at a place on the Adriatic in Italy, then a call to Arizona. What Lumbas passed along had checked out. Where had this come from? Arizona pressed. We need bona fides. Move me to Belgrade, Frash implored. Let me work this one myself; he won’t talk to anybody else. All right, but no mistakes, his handler advised. This was the long-awaited Midas asset, purest of pure, and let’s keep it so. We don’t get these very often. By then Myslim had revealed his network in Kosovo Province, where there were a million Albanians waiting to be led home, a ready-made army for the right leader. Lumbas would be a perfect diversion for Frash’s masters and allow Frash to pursue what was deep in his heart. It had gone well, nearly flawlessly. The Belgrade chief of station was nosy but could be sidestepped because a Midas asset required a short chain of command: Arizona and him, and only he knew Lumbas. Arizona had a name but no face and no details. Only he could work Lumbas, which was how Frash wanted it. Alone he could move when and where he wanted, with a perfect cover for his true work.
The lights were on in the cabin now, billowing smoke silhouetted against the sky. Let him sit awhile, Frash cautioned himself.
It was Myslim who had suggested the focus on Kosovo, a province in southern Serbia filled with Albanians who had fled their homeland during the thirties and forties, and descendants of those who had fled Zog, the Nazis, and later the Communists. The Albanians were the province’s majority but were ruled by Serbs, whom they loathed; the area was a powder keg which with careful provocation might make them rise against their Serbian masters or strike across the border at Hoxha, who ruled what was once theirs. Where else can we find a ready-made army? Myslim had argued.
His brother shared his dream, and in mutual interest a plan was born. While information about Soviet rocketry flowed from Lumbas through Frash to Arizona and CIA analysts, Frash and his half brother concentrated on their plan to unseat Hoxha. At each turn Myslim seemed to have a ready-made answer, and not once had he been wrong.
In the course of this Frash asked Myslim how he had come to know Lumbas.
“His parents are also Albanian,” Myslim revealed. “He wants all the things we want.”
At first Frash resisted Lumbas’s involvement in their true work but Villam had his own contacts in Kosovo, and in the end the three of them became the heart of the new alliance; from this grew their plan, sketchy at first, but quickly taking shape. No, Frash said, revising the thought. Not their plan. Myslim’s plan. His and Villam’s. Sitting in the dark crevices above the cabin, he now saw how the two had led him to believe that it was his own, but it had been theirs from the start.
Myslim was well connected inside Albania and got them information indicating that 35 to 45 percent of the mountain tribes would rise if they could be assured success. Tito, in fact, had helped establish these sympathies through his own covert operations led by General Milos Duzevic, a partisan hero now officially retired but responsible to Tito for counterintelligence operations against the Hoxha regime. Duzevic’s main lieutenant was Admiral Pinajot Pijaku, formerly of the Albanian navy and himself a refugee from Hoxha’s wrath. The Yugoslavian effort, however, was aimed solely at keeping Hoxha off balance, not toppling him from power. What the brothers intended was considerably more ambitious: a land attack from the north by Kosovo-based Albanians and a second front in the south by the Greeks, who were tired of Albania’s support for Greek Communists. With the battle committed, Hoxha’s opposition would rise up and link with the invading forces. To gain acceptance, Frash had convinced the various parties that as support for the attack the U.S. Navy would cruise the Albanian coast, pouring gunfire onto mainland strongholds. There was no way to actually involve the Navy, but if Albania was to be his, he had to convince them that it was true, and eventually they had believed him. This too had been Myslim’s idea.
“How will the Soviets react?” he had asked his brother.
Don’t worry about the Soviets, Myslim assured him. The Albanians were already on the verge of a split with the Soviets. Hoxha was forever reminding Soviet officials that the Albanians had freed themselves of Nazi oppression without Soviet assistance and therefore the relationship was one of equals, not master and vassal; thus Albania was a sister state, a full member of the socialist family, and with this they insisted on full and equal rights. There’s a schism, Myslim told him. The Soviets think they’re losing Albania to the Red Chinese; if Khrushchev thinks Tito can annex the bastards, he’ll stay clear. Stalin and Tito hated each other, but now Khrushchev wants Tito back in the family and he’s willing to give him Albania as a dowry. Don’t worry about the Soviets.
It had all been set, the arrangements made, promises given, money collected, arms purchased and distributed and the plan initiated; then Lumbas had been killed. Frash went over Villam’s killing again and again. Villam had given the emergency signal for the rendezvous, but he had been calm in the cemetery. Only later had Frash understood that this behavior revealed more than words. Villam didn’t balk when he saw the killers because he expected them to be there. Explanation: Lumbas had attempted to set him up but had been killed in his own trap. Why? There was only one reasonable conclusion: Villam had been used to draw him in, but the killers had intended all along to take out both of them.
Myslim came out on the porch, lit a cigarette, took several puffs, looked around several times, flicked the butt into the darkness and went back inside. Frash decided to stay put a while longer.
The assassins in Belgrade had been Russians; there was no mistaking their style. But why? Despite its reputation for brutishness the KGB was a professional and competent organization, killing only when it was logical, when no other option existed, or when it was an essential tactical component of a scheme. Syllogistically: Lumbas the Russian was leaking rocket information to the CIA; the Russians used Lumbas to set him up; therefore, the Russia
ns knew about the leak and about the operation to unseat Hoxha. But if they knew, why had Villam been killed? Procedure would require them to interrogate Lumbas in a process that would entail months, perhaps years, the Russians being incredibly meticulous in such matters. Against this well-established standard they had not bothered to plumb Villam’s perfidy and they had summarily executed him. Why? The killing was counter to established procedure on both sides.
Tired now, concentration faltering. Stay with it. You’re closer now.
If they killed Lumbas and were not worried about determining what he had passed to the West, this meant they already knew what he had leaked and perhaps had dismissed its value. Or what he had was of no value in the first place, or if it was valuable, its passing had been intended, the information expendable. Valuable or not, his murder meant that Villam was not what he was purported to be. It had been Myslim who had led him to Lumbas and vouched for him. A brother’s gift! He could feel Ali’s rage growing inside him. The Russians wanted both him and Lumbas dead because they were pawns in something larger, and Myslim had engineered it. If the Soviets tried to set him up in Belgrade, they would try again. Such a decision would not be turned on and off. His own death had to be one more move in a grander scheme; yet there had been no pursuit, so alternatives must exist, and now Myslim had called for a meeting just as inexplicably as Lumbas had. Who could reach him? Only his brother. There was no other way to read it: Myslim had double-crossed him.
Myslim moved in and out of Albania with impunity when even top Yugoslav agents could not achieve this with any regularity. The conclusion was inescapable: Myslim was a Soviet agent. His brother had given him Lumbas because the Soviets wanted him to have Lumbas. But why? So they could take down Hoxha? No. If that had been the intent, they would have allowed the operation to take place, but Villam’s death had shattered the operation just as it got rolling. Why?
When Frash stepped through the door of the cabin his 9 mm automatic was in his left hand and he saw a grinning Myslim seated by the fireplace, a blanket over his lap, his hands underneath.
“You look tense, my brother,” Frash said.
“It’s a disaster,” Myslim said. This was not going to be easy. His brother was spooked and he was a professional. They had missed him in Belgrade, so now it fell to him to finish the job. The orders had been explicit: after the Albanians had been helped to uncover the plot, both men were to be eliminated. Their parts had been played and they were to be removed so that there was no chance of interference and no way to backtrack the events that had been set in motion.
“What’s a disaster?” Frash asked, keeping his distance.
“The plan. Shehu knows what’s going on. He’s sent his people to Paris; they’re killing our comrades.”
“Our comrades?”
Myslim stiffened. “The movement.” He nodded at a manila envelope on the table. “Newspaper reports,” he said. “Read them. You’ll see how it is.”
“I’ve seen them,” Frash said coolly. “How does Shehu know where to look?”
Myslim raised his eyebrows. “The Sigurimi must have infiltrated us. Or perhaps the Greeks cut a deal with Shehu. You can’t trust Greeks,” he grunted. “We should have anticipated that.”
“Perhaps the Russians betrayed us,” Frash said. It wouldn’t be the first time. He knew that an earlier CIA-Brit operation had been launched from Crete and been crushed over a three-year period; it had been the Russians who somehow got wind of the mission and alerted the Albanians then.
Shit, Myslim thought. Did his brother know or was he guessing? “The Russians are not our worry. Remember? What have the Russians got to do with this?”
This was the same question Frash had. He backed up slightly to open more space after pushing the door closed with his heel. “Why did you call for a meeting? This was to be only a last resort.”
“The whole thing was crumbling; I tried to find you in Belgrade but you and Villam had disappeared. I thought: Ali will see that it’s gone badly and he’ll know what to do, so I left.”
Frash paused a long time before answering. “Yes, brother, I know. I saw Villam killed.” Myslim tensed. “Let me see your hands,” Frash said softly. “Slowly.”
“Is this a joke?” He knew.
“Tell me about Lumbas,” Frash said. “And Kennedy.”
The wide grin faded from Muslim’s craggy face. “I don’t understand.” Kennedy? What the hell was he talking about?
“Put your hands on top of your head and stand up.”
Myslim struggled to maintain composure. “A parlor game?”
“Up,” Frash repeated. When his brother stood, a revolver thudded to the plank floor.
“Expecting a problem?” Frash asked. Did the new President expect problems?
“I’m a cautious man.”
“Not cautious enough. Squat.” Frash moved carefully and kicked the pistol away. When Myslim glanced over his left shoulder Frash struck him hard over the opposite ear, then searched his clothing. In his breast pocket he found a small glass ampule; it was cyanide in the form favored by KGB illegals, as good as an engraved calling card. When Myslim revived he was bound to a wooden pillar. Frash flicked the ampule into the fireplace.
“You’ll get nothing from me,” Myslim said, his grin steady.
“My dear brother,” Frash said, “I’ll get everything.”
47 MONDAY, MARCH 13, 1961, 10:40 P.M.Barvikha, Russia
The room felt comfortable and lived in but had more furniture than Talia had ever seen. There was a modern record player and a tall wooden case filled with albums, several vases filled with fresh flowers, and on one wall two small icons in gilt frames. Beside a chair was a wooden box overflowing with paperbacked books and colored crayons. She picked up one of the books and thumbed through the pages; they were filled with outline drawings of smiling animals. What sort of book was this? She looked through several more and found some with the pictures colored in. How odd to have the outline of the animals already drawn; wasn’t that part of the artist’s function?
“You see what my grandchildren do for amusement,” Nikita Khrushchev boomed as he entered the room. “At least it’s better than the jazz music my daughter’s husband amuses himself with. You come from Petrov?”
“Yes, Comrade General Secretary.” She held out one of the books. “What is this?”
“They’re from America. Gifts from President Eisenhower’s grandchildren to my grandchildren.”
“I don’t understand their purpose.”
“It’s ironic,” Khrushchev said. “Americans put great value on independent thinking, yet they teach their children to stay within the lines.” The General Secretary sat down in an upholstered chair and put his feet up on a leather footstool. He wore a silk robe and scuffed brown leather slippers with crushed heels. “If such books existed in our country the Americans would chastise us for mind control.” He laughed, showing a gap between his upper front teeth. His voice was pleasant and younger than his appearance, and she could sense his energy.
Talia returned the books to the box and sat down.
“Petrov sends a woman to me and asks me to cooperate fully.” Khrushchev grinned. “He has audacity. What would my colleagues say if they knew I was taking instructions from a woman?”
“They might guess you were married.”
Nikita Sergeievich’s grin widened. “Your tongue is as sharp as Petrov’s.”
“As is my mind,” she said, and immediately regretted her retort.
“Let’s hope that your resolve equals your intellect,” the General Secretary said sharply, his pleasant grin suddenly gone.
“For the moment,” Talia said, “my needs are simple. First you must tell me everything about your personal security organization. I must know exactly how things are done. Every detail.”
“And then?”
“You will be taken care of.”
The General Secretary was intrigued by her. Tall, with dark hair and high cheekbones, she w
ore a gray suit that looked new but didn’t fit well; even so, she was elegant and obviously confident. Her voice was soft and feminine, but there was something in her demeanor that suggested a reservoir of inner strength. Most people who had to deal with him let their anxiety show, but this tall woman seemed entirely at ease, and he was impressed.
“I’m called Talia.”
“A beautiful name.” Would her strength endure over time? It was one thing to be strong outside Moscow, but life and power in the Kremlin exacted an inevitable price on those who managed to rise. Those who sat at the pinnacle became targets whose eventual fall was the sole objective of those below them. Most who managed to get this far had exquisite skills and unshakable confidence, but longevity required much more, especially for a woman. It would be interesting to see how she fared.
Talia was also measuring Khrushchev. He was short and fat, with a round face and thick lips, but there was a certain grace in his movements. Still, his presence was ordinary; if he were removed from Moscow and deposited in Tanga he would look as if he had always been there. With his plump peasant’s face, he would seem at home in a shapka and dog coat, perhaps even more at home than in his present surroundings. By and large he seemed to be an ordinary man who had achieved extraordinary success. That this was possible suggested that the Soviet system was not so bad. Talia also knew that whatever Khrushchev’s current image and her first impressions were, he had once been one of Stalin’s most ruthless lieutenants. To rise so high under the old regime, she decided, required a peasant’s brutish view of the world. But if Nikita Sergeievich were starting his career now, would he be as successful? Remember that he is a sort of predator, Petrov had advised her; those around him are scavengers and much less predictable. They had spent only a few moments together, but already she felt that she could work with the General Secretary. Had Petrov also sensed this when he sent her here?
The Domino Conspiracy Page 21
