Arizona did not volunteer his own resignation; clearly Dulles and Dick Bissell would bear the brunt. They would go, others would remain and this would ensure the continuity of the Company. The director’s visit was a professional favor; Dulles was warning him before there was an official inquiry that his source of information should be sanitized. What this meant was left open to Arizona’s interpretation.
“Khrushchev will take advantage of the Cuban failure,” Dulles went on. “He’ll probe everywhere, which means that operations in Western and Eastern Europe will take on increased importance. We’ll need every man we have with experience in those theaters.” He seemed almost relieved that he was leaving the fray. Translation: Save your own ass, and the Company’s with it.
The meeting ended with an unenthusiastic handshake. There were no regrets, no nostalgic remembrances, only the business at hand, which was to clean up Operation Pluto’s offal. Arizona did not care for Allen Dulles; he admired what the man had built and accomplished, but not the man himself. He was from old money, old connections and old values based on his own caste, which amounted to three or four hundred families in a dozen enclaves around the country. Not that Arizona was driven by the fires of egalitarianism, but in his philosophy people of merit could move up. In the director’s world you were either born into the elite or you weren’t. People like Dulles lived in a sort of velvet cocoon. He would resign and that would be that; he would still see the same people, think the same thoughts, have the same discussions. But if Arizona fell, it would be a long drop back to a cactus law practice in Phoenix and teaching an occasional course at the law school. It was a fall he intended to avoid, no matter what the cost, and the first step was to answer the coded wire from Sir John Cumming.
He made the call from a telephone booth on Highway 1. Two hundred meters away stood the Appomattox Confederate Memorial. Robert E. Lee had killed more Americans than Hirohito and Hitler combined, yet there was a fucking statue of him standing in the same city he had attacked. The United States was full of maniacs.
The phone rang several times before it was picked up. “Cumming here,” a sleepy voice said.
“Got your wire.”
“Didn’t expect such a prompt reply,” Sir John said. “Rather suspected that our cousins might be busy mopping the decks. Bloody bad luck with our bearded friend. I read a report once that said he was protected by voodoo. Do you suppose there’s any truth to it?”
“Nothing would surprise me. What’s up?”
“One of the passports has shown up. Thought you might like to know. It was in the possession of a gentleman who checked out of the Excelsior Hotel in Venice. It’s on the Lido.”
He knew the place. It was a hideaway for the wealthy. “When?”
“Cheeky to live so high. He checked out this morning. The hotel reported the number to the carabinieri, who passed it on to Interpol. Their computer spit it out this afternoon. Reassuring to know that our Continental allies can follow a simple procedure.”
“They were supposed to process the numbers at check-in.”
“Yankee optimism.”
“Where was he headed?”
“Sorry, old boy, haven’t heard anything, but if he crosses the bloody border again, we’ll nick him. Thought you might like to have the first crack at following up on this.” Cumming then offered the use of what he called a speciality unit, but Arizona politely refused. “You’ll make sure that my people have a chat with this desperado when you apprehend him? Don’t know your angle, old chum, and wouldn’t pry—professional respect and so forth—but he did cost us an important asset. A matter of form, you know. Need to assure ourselves that it amounts to simple theft and nothing more sinister. Left to me, I wouldn’t even raise the issue, but we all have our procedural goblins. Can we count on your cooperation?”
“Your position is crystal clear,” Arizona said by way of evasion. What he really wanted was to tell Cumming to go fuck himself. British intelligence had been crawling with Soviet agents and Commie sympathizers for at least twenty years. The fact that the Russians rarely defected to the Brits suggested that would-be defectors knew that Her Majesty’s Secret Service was badly compromised. “We’ll stay in touch.”
“Good hunting,” Cumming said before hanging up.
As soon as he could find his hunters.
117FRIDAY, APRIL 21, 1961, 7:15 A.M.Moscow
Talia and Bailov made straight for the hospital, where Talia immediately called Ezdovo and asked him to join the team there.
Bailov went to Petrov’s room and found Melko snoring loudly on one of the beds, but there was no sign of the patient or the doctor. He gave the bottom of Melko’s left foot a sharp whack and backpedaled to a safe distance; the former criminal instantly bolted out of the bed cursing, his fists chopping the air with lethal intent. “Where’s Petrov?” Bailov asked.
Melko shook his head in an effort to clear it and stared at the bed where their leader had been.
When Talia joined them her eyes also went directly to the empty bed, then to Melko and Bailov. “Where is he?”
“He was here when I fell asleep,” Melko sputtered.
“You bray like a bloody ass when you sleep,” Petrov complained from the bathroom door. “A dead man couldn’t stand such a racket.” Their leader was fully dressed and standing under his own power. His coloring was still poor and his eyes were sunken, but otherwise he looked improved. “Call me Lazarus,” he said.
Gnedin arrived moments later and was followed almost immediately by Ezdovo, who looked drawn and tense. He moved to his wife’s side but made no attempt to embrace her. “I’m glad you’re back,” he whispered.
“Miss me?”
“Don’t leave me with that one again.”
She knew he meant Khrushchev and understood his frustration. Guarding the man was like trying to keep a blanket on a dervish.
Petrov stared at Bailov. “It’s gratifying to see you return to us.” Bailov started to protest, but Petrov’s wry smile stopped him. “What did the Americans have to say?”
“Lumbas is dead. Their agent called Frash was born Frascetti. That’s the same surname as the Albanian who was Lumbas’s comrade at the university.”
“They had proof that Lumbas is dead?”
“He was killed in Belgrade,” Talia said. “The Americans showed us a photograph of their man and ours together, and another photograph of Lumbas in a Belgrade morgue. The Americans believe that Lumbas was killed by Russians. He was passing classified information to the Americans, but they believe that this may have been secondary to his primary interest.”
Petrov was listening carefully. “Which was?”
“The Americans have evidence that Frash and Lumbas tried to mount an operation against Albania. Frash’s parents were Albanian expatriates involved with groups sworn to overthrow Enver Hoxha. The son may have tried to continue this.”
“You told them that Lumbas and his university comrade were Albanian?”
“We withheld that information,” she said.
One of Petrov’s eyebrows moved ever so slightly. “Why?”
“A mixture of instinct and logic,” Talia admitted. She couldn’t explain it any better than that.
“Logic separates man from animal,” Petrov said.
“Man is animal,” she came back. “Our logic sometimes obscures this.”
Petrov nodded. “An interesting perspective.”
“The Americans asked for a meeting. They laid out the whole thing, and it was our impression that the exchange was straightforward.” She looked at Bailov and got a supportive nod. “We felt that they held nothing back from us.”
“Yet you held back from them,” Petrov said.
“Truth is often the perfect lie,” she said. “We believe they were being open, but what if they knew only what their superiors wanted them to know? If Lumbas passed them information about the rocket program, why would they tell us? Even if he’s dead, why reveal the secret? Why give up what nobody knows yo
u have?”
“Paranoia is a powerful force,” Petrov said. “It’s also what keeps people like us alive.” He turned to Gnedin who had been looking into the Albanian situation from another perspective.
Gnedin took a deep breath, then spoke softly. “There were radio reports out of Tirana of an attempted coup last year. They claimed that the Americans, Yugoslavs and Greeks were involved.”
“The Americans say they have a source in Paris who claims that Frash was the architect of such a plan,” Talia said.
“The Albanians say they have arrested all the conspirators,” Gnedin said.
“Expatriates were murdered in France,” Talia added.
“How did the Albanians discover the operation?” Petrov asked. The group was silent. “We need to know this.” He looked at Talia. “Was it your thought that the Americans mounted an operation, and when it was discovered perhaps tried to implicate the Soviet Union?”
“Lumbas is dead, and presumably the Americans have already absorbed and analyzed what information he passed to them,” she said. “To disclose that they had penetrated such a classified operation requires a comprehensive security revaluation on our part; such a critical loss requires a strong reaction. People, procedures, everything would have to be re-vetted and reexamined. More important, this could create a level of paranoia that might slow down our missile development. As for Albania, if there was a legitimate attempt to overthrow the regime and it failed, what better way to cover it than to make the Albanians think that we were partners in the effort? Lumbas is dead and their man is missing, so there is no way to confirm anything. Telling us that there may have been a combined effort by one of their people and one of ours has the same effect as unmasking Lumbas as a traitor. If we try to investigate officially any activity against Albania, it’s likely to simply reconfirm the Albanians’ suspicions. We thought it best to discuss it with the team before revealing that Lumbas and Frascetti were Albanians.”
“I agree with what you’ve done,” Petrov said, “but not necessarily with your assessment.”
“What if Lumbas was sent to the Americans?” Melko suggested. “Let’s say for the purpose of discussion that there was in fact a plan to provoke Albania, and that this came not from Lumbas but from those who pulled him out of Tyuratam.”
“If the Soviet Union wanted to crush Albania militarily, it could do so in a matter of days,” Gnedin interjected.
“I didn’t say ‘crush,’ I said ‘provoke,’” Melko said. “There were once three rival gangs in Georgia. The first arranged a provocation against number three so that it seemed to come from the second group. The third gang reacted by declaring war on the second, and when it was finished the real provocateurs stepped in and destroyed what remained of the two rival groups. Now this group controls Georgia.”
Petrov stared at the wall for a long time. “It’s plausible,” he said finally, “but for the analogy to apply, the second and third groups would have to be nearly equal in strength to the first group.”
“They were,” Melko said.
“Which is not true if we name the gangs U.S., U.S.S.R. and Albania,” Petrov said.
“What if we call them Albania, a faction in the U.S. and a faction in the U.S.S.R.?” Talia asked.
“The Americans believe that Lumbas was murdered by Soviets,” Bailov said. “Which is not exactly standard procedure.”
“Khrushchev knew nothing of a wet operation against Lumbas,” Petrov said, picking up Bailov’s point. “Yet someone in the Soviet Union moved him from his duties at Tyuratam and sent him to Yugoslovia. There is ample reason to conclude that the real enemy is inside our borders,” he concluded. “What do the Americans plan to do?”
“Continue to search for their own man,” Talia said.
“What do they expect from us?”
“Consultation,” Bailov said. “If they can find and capture their man, they promise to share what they learn. I believe them.”
“As do I,” Talia said.
“Where do we focus?” Petrov asked as he reached for a towel. Talia saw that he was prespiring heavily. “Who killed Lumbas? Who and where is the Frascetti in his past, and is he connected to this in some way?”
“We’ve already tried to backtrack Lumbas and our Frascetti,” Gnedin reminded the group. “It’s as if they never existed in the Soviet Union. What traces remain lead nowhere.”
Bailov coughed quietly and chewed his lip. He had protected Yepishev and drawn Petrov’s ire. Now there might be reason to protect somebody else, somebody so dear to him that his mouth seemed filled with cotton. “Perhaps we’ve been looking in the wrong place,” he said mysteriously.
The others looked to him for an explanation. “Would you care to amplify that statement?” Petrov asked with an edge to his voice.
“Not at this time,” Bailov answered.
118FRIDAY, APRIL 21, 1961, 10:30 A.M.Geneva
It was a blustery, sunny day with a clear blue sky and whitecaps snapping energetically on Lake Geneva. Valentine stood inside the door of the cottage and watched people prowling the grounds wearing gloves and scarves. He grinned and motioned for Sylvia to look. When she saw the nudists so attired she smiled too.
“Crazy,” he said. “Why do people come to a place like this?”
“Good way to tell if your man has a wandering eye,” Sylvia said.
“Not fair.”
“It’s men who wander,” she answered. “Not women.”
A knock at the door sent Valentine scrambling for the bedroom.
When Sylvia returned she was carrying an envelope. “Maybe a love note from a secret admirer,” she teased. “Could be somebody likes what he’s seen.”
Valentine wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into bed. “Let’s play plumber,” he whispered.
“I should read the mail first,” she said, pushing him away. “Business before pleasure.” She tore open the sealed envelope and seconds later was up and grabbing for her clothing.
“What is it?” he groaned.
“It’s from Arizona,” she said, tossing the message to him.
The note read, “One of twelve has shown up at the Excelsior Hotel, Venice. Assess ASAP.” He stared at the note and watched her as she pulled on her sweater. “Frash,” he said.
“Pretty good guess,” she said, buttoning her skirt.
“I’m really starting to hate that son of a bitch,” Valentine grumbled as he rolled off the bed and searched for his clothes.
119FRIDAY, APRIL 21, 1961, 8:55 P.M.Moscow
Bailov arrived first and waited in the lobby. Raya came in a few minutes later. She wore a long overcoat, a dark print dress and flat black shoes, all of which were part of her professional disguise. “I assume you have a good reason for such a public meeting,” she greeted him icily.
He took her coat and traded it for a red plastic claim check. The Peking was one of Moscow’s finest restaurants and there was a large crowd in the cavernous, poorly lit lobby. He took Raya by the arm and led her through the crowd to the headwaiter, a tall Oriental with a shaved head and a goatee. “No room tonight,” he said before Bailov could speak. “Full up.”
Bailov smiled and slipped a one-ruble note to the man, who immediately changed his attitude. “Right this way,” he said with too much enthusiasm. “Best table in the house.” Which meant the best for the price.
The dining room was twenty meters high and dimly lit. Brightly painted dragon heads stared down from the top of square columns; the room was filled with the blue haze of cigarettes. “I don’t like this,” Raya said when they were seated. “Our relationship is private.”
“We need to talk.”
She smiled and shook her head. “Even a lunatic knows you can’t talk in a Russian restaurant.” As if on cue, a five-piece band struck up a song, sending the sound bouncing around the room to obliterate a hundred conversations.
Bailov waved at a nearby waiter who refused to make eye contact. When he held up a folded five-ruble note t
he man immediately came over to the table and bowed. “There will be more if the service warrants it,” Bailov said as the man palmed the bill.
The dance floor was filled. Half a dozen men in air force uniforms used a red blanket to toss a small woman into the air. She squealed, the airmen cheered, dancers clapped, shouts rose from tables, vodka flowed, food came slowly, the smoke thickened. “I need help,” Bailov said over the noise.
Raya kicked off her shoe and stuck her foot up his trouser leg. “You’re all the way across the table,” she complained.
“I’m serious,” he said.
“Me too.”
“You once told me about Albania,” he said. She had been there many times to study her beloved birds.
“I’ve told you many things about my life. I can’t say that my openness has been reciprocated.”
He ignored the complaint. “There was something specific about a man you met at a reception. A historian, I think. He claimed he was compiling a list of traitors, sympathizers of Zog, the former king.”
She gave him a hard look. “I don’t think I’m going to like this.”
“Do you remember?”
She wished she didn’t. Her Albanian friend Debra said that the man was affiliated with Sigurimi, the Albanian secret police, and that in public trials he had often served as a state’s witness, his knowledge leading to several executions. Dozens of people were in jails or concentration camps because of him, and he used his power immorally. Debra herself had been forced to sleep with him several times and loathed him, but her teaching position at the university was important to her and she was resigned to doing whatever was necessary to keep it. It’s not so much, she had rationalized. On meeting him Raya had behaved as she was instructed and had praised Stalin several times at the reception. The Albanians had loved the Soviet dictator, and Khrushchev’s denouncement of him in 1956 had angered them. After the party the history professor had cornered her outside and tried to force his hand up her dress, but she was menstruating and this had saved her.
The Domino Conspiracy Page 44
