The general was thin and handsome, his appearance that of a soft and overly fastidious man, but he was a much decorated veteran of the Great Patriotic War and most recently the commander of Soviet forces in Berlin. Among generals, he was reputed to be a brilliant strategist; that he had suddenly been pulled out of Berlin to head security for the summit suggested that the whippetlike general was KGB and much closer to the top than anybody imagined.
“I can’t accept this,” Talia said firmly.
“If we alter normal security,” the General Secretary said, “the Americans will know it, and we can’t show any weakness in Vienna. That’s crucial. Vienna will be like a theatrical production—only the stakes are greater.”
“No doubt the Americans already know that there have been drastic modifications in your security arrangements here in Moscow,” Talia countered.
“What they see and what they know are often different. The West has great difficulty reading what goes on here,” Khrushchev answered. “If everything appears normal in Vienna, they’ll assume it’s normal. Americans are most comfortable with the obvious.”
“And our role?” Talia asked.
Khrushchev sat down behind a small desk and put on his wire-rimmed spectacles. She knew that he didn’t need them, but he sometimes wore them to make himself look more grandfatherly, one of his many little subterfuges. “You’ll travel with me,” he said. “We’ll let it be known that you’re a relative.”
“What about the rest of the group?”
“No change in its mission, but Zakharov will be officially in charge. He’ll provide whatever you need.”
“Petrov will never agree to this,” Talia said. “Our sole concern is your safety.”
Khrushchev smiled and patted her arm. “The old ones like Petrov never accept anything. He wants to keep chasing shadows? So be it. Let him chase.” He smacked his belly. “Down here I sense that everything is finished. All I want now is to think about this Kennedy fellow.”
Ezdovo was waiting for her, glad to have some time alone with his wife, but when he saw her face he knew there was trouble. “Did you tell him about your contact with the Americans?”
“Just drive,” she said coolly. “I need to think.”
She had not told Khrushchev about the Americans and wasn’t sure why. Because of Zakharov’s presence? Perhaps. The general had said nothing and shown no emotion, which made him impossible to read. “If he knew, he would be worried, and his mind must be clear in Vienna. There must be no distractions.”
“I would have told him,” Ezdovo said.
“It wasn’t your decision,” she snapped. Her husband’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as they drove through the darkened city. “A general named Zakharov will be responsible for the General Secretary’s safety in Vienna.”
He stared at her. “And us?”
“We can do whatever is necessary. He’ll assist us.” She wondered how willingly.
Ezdovo shook his head. “If the general is in charge, then we’re out?”
Talia turned to face him. “No, this frees us to do what we have to do.” Her husband’s look told her that he thought she had failed; she wanted desperately to tell him he was wrong but it would only provoke an argument, and right now there were more important things to think about. Zakharov could complicate their work; Ezdovo was right about that. Did Khrushchev doubt Petrov’s ability? The team’s? Or was it her? These thoughts made her feel inadequate, and she knew she had to put them aside. Khrushchev had said repeatedly how critical the summit would be. This was not a slap in her face, she reassured herself; the General Secretary was simply compartmentalizing his life so that he could concentrate. If it was important for him that everything seem normal in Vienna, they would do everything possible to make it so.
“I don’t like this,” Ezdovo said as he turned up the street to the hospital.
“Everything will be fine,” Talia answered. She did not like to think in terms of failure. Could Zakharov be trusted? By the time they were parked at the hospital she had decided that it didn’t matter. “Say nothing about this to Petrov,” she said as they got out of the automobile.
Ezdovo stared at her as if she had proposed treason.
“I mean it,” she said as they approached the entrance.
163MAY 14, 1961, 4:10 A.M.Vienna
The Russians had established themselves in a long, rusty barge anchored along a stone jetty in the Danube. The interior was battered and dented, the wood devoid of varnish, the metal flooring warped, and when the wind came out of the west the stench of the bilges was nauseating. The Americans saw that one cabin was jammed with communications gear, none of it bolted down, which suggested a temporary setup. After the encounter with the Gypsies they had slept in the forest, then made their way back across the border at night and driven straight to Vienna in the rear of one of the Russian trucks, leaving their vehicle in Nauders. It had been dark when they boarded the barge. For the past twenty-four hours they had been left alone in a small, dank cabin with filthy net hammocks for beds. Each time they tried to leave the cabin Russian guards gently herded them back inside with a whispered, gentle nyet.
By the time Bailov summoned them to the galley amidships Valentine was fuming. “My apologies for keeping you penned up like this,” the Russian said, “but we needed to confer with Moscow.”
“Where’s the woman who was with you in Geneva?” Valentine asked.
“In Moscow.”
Which could mean she was the leader of the group, or one of them; with the Soviets it was hard to know how far any individual’s authority stretched.
Bailov drew a deep breath and let it out slowly in order to choose his words. “Do you agree that the Gypsy confirmed that your man has moved into Austria?”
“Probably,” Sylvia said.
“He’s here,” Valentine said, thumping the table heavily with the palm of his hand. “Or coming here.”
“Vienna?” the Russian asked, leaning forward.
“It doesn’t make sense, which in Frash’s case means it’s perfectly logical.”
“Why?”
“Revenge, the universal motivator.”
“Against whom?”
“That’s where I draw sort of a big-ass blank,” Valentine said. “I had the peculiar notion that you fellas might have a few ideas along that line.”
Bailov spoke slowly. “Your Frash may be the half brother to the one called the Major. The family name is Frascetti.”
“Tell us something we don’t already know.”
“The brother came to Moscow during the war. He was a close associate of Villam Lumbas, who was also Albanian-born. After university Lumbas went to the Foreign Ministry and Frascetti to the KGB, but both of them were paid on the twentieth of each month. Do you understand?”
Sylvia spoke up. “December 20, 1917.”
“Exactly,” Bailov said, impressed by her knowledge.
“Will somebody clue me in?” Valentine asked.
“It’s the date the Cheka was founded,” she said. “Nowadays KGB officals carry identity cards with the sword-and-shield emblem of the Cheka, and they’re all paid on the twentieth of each month.”
“So Lumbas was a KGB man assigned to the Foreign Ministry, but not as a diplomat?”
“You’ve got the idea,” she said.
Valentine looked back at the Russian. “What about the fingerprints?” They had given the Lamoura prints to the Soviets in Geneva.
“Nothing,” Bailov admitted. “The records were purged, and neither Lumbas nor Frascetti exists in the state’s official memory bank. However, we know that Frascetti’s parents emigrated to America through France. Same mother, different father.”
“Where in America?”
“Boston, Massachusetts.”
“All right,” Valentine said, thinking aloud now, “let’s forget the brothers and concentrate on Frascetti-Lumbas. You say they were connected a long time ago; are you saying you think they maintained contact all
those years?”
“An investigator seldom has all the facts he needs,” Bailov said. “The craft is in gathering facts, the art in tying them together. You connected Frash and Lumbas in Belgrade; we connected Frash’s half-brother and Lumbas in Moscow. That’s too much coincidence to ignore. Besides, in my country there is a saying: ‘Better to have a hundred friends than a hundred rubles.’ This means that Russian people create their own networks, little personal states within the big official state. Family, friends and comrades are valuable, even essential to survival. You get ahead by whom you know, or whom your friends know. We can assume that Frascetti and Lumbas maintained contact because they were at university together, because they were Albanians, because both went to the KGB, and because it’s our way.”
What kept nagging at Valentine was the Russians’ interest in Frash. It should tell me something, he thought, but he couldn’t pin it down. “We think that Frash and Lumbas attempted something against Albania, but Frash wasn’t acting on our orders. He was free-lancing.”
“Nor was Lumbas acting on our orders.”
“But Lumbas was eliminated by your side.”
“Not by us. By Russians possibly, even probably, but not by us.”
“Let’s assume that somebody in your camp wanted Lumbas dead,” Sylvia said.
“Such a killing would indicate action by someone outside the system. We would have required a thorough and lengthy debriefing.”
This made sense. “Which means that whoever was running Lumbas wanted him out of the way?” Sylvia asked.
“Perhaps. Lumbas was at Tyuratam last year. At the university he showed a high aptitude for electronics.”
“But he went to the Foreign Ministry,” Sylvia reminded him.
“I have a university degree in mechanical engineering,” Bailov said, “but I’m not an engineer. In the Soviet Union we keep track of people with special aptitudes, and when the state needs them they’re recruited. We believe that Lumbas was assigned to the rocket program for legitimate reasons, and we know that while he was there he contributed much to the effort. In fact, our attention wasn’t drawn to him until the accident. When there’s a big problem in Russia everyone accuses everyone else in order to obscure the issue. With Lumbas gone, fingers pointed to him, so we started looking for him and discovered that his transfer had occurred under highly unusual circumstances.”
“We heard most of this in Geneva,” Valentine snapped. “You thought this was a KGB operation, but there were some loose ends to tie up. You weren’t certain then that Lumbas was KGB.”
Bailov ignored this and continued. “As I said, we began a quiet investigation because of the possible implications. One investigator was murdered, and after that more people died.”
“What implications?” Sylvia asked. It seemed to her that the Russian was working his way around to something. “Nothing you did brought you any closer to Lumbas, is that it?” she asked.
“We took our investigation to a conclusion.”
Sylvia heard something in Bailov’s voice that suggested they were not satisfied with the outcome. “You know who transferred Lumbas?”
“We know how it was done and who signed the papers.”
“But not why,” Valentine said. “You have it all and nothing at all, a closed case that isn’t.”
“Lumbas is a line touching the circle in only one place, but is he the target or the central figure? We’ve taken it to what appears to be a logical conclusion, but something in here”—Bailov touched his hand to his heart—“says Don’t stop. When the weather’s bad a pilot trusts his instruments, but which instrument is best now, the mind or the heart?”
“Why did you pick Vienna for our meeting?” Sylvia asked.
“Because of the summit.”
She glanced at Valentine but he was staring at a wall, seemingly oblivious. “You think the summit is connected to Lumbas?” Her words seemed clumsy and forced.
Suddenly Valentine made an odd face. “You work for Khrushchev,” he whispered. Sylvia looked from one man to the other. “The investigation began because Khrushchev had the willies about Lumbas.” His voice was louder, more sure. “Lumbas was a threat, but you haven’t been able to nail it down, so you’re assuming that whatever this is all about will happen here.”
Bailov cleared his throat. “Lumbas was transferred over Khrushchev’s signature. It was forged.”
Jesus, Valentine thought. “Which explains your willingness to meet us. The first time we met you were fishing too.”
“We knew nothing about your Mr. Frash,” Bailov admitted.
“Which now makes Frash a worry for you.”
“Yes,” Bailov said. “If he’s coming here.”
“He’s coming,” the American said.
“We agree,” the Russian said. “As you said earlier, revenge is a universal motivation, but who’s the target? If your man believes he was used by our side, which is possible based on the information you gave us in Geneva, it’s now likely that he realizes that Lumbas was sent as a provocateur.”
“What you’re telling us is that you’ve run out of possibilities in Moscow.”
The Russian nodded. “He would appear to be the last surviving thread. Is that how you would say it?”
“Only metaphorically. How much leverage do you have to make things happen on your side?”
“Enough,” Bailov said, though after last night’s talk with Talia he was not certain any more. Zakharov was an unexpected complication.
“What we’re doing here is forming a partnership, right?”
Bailov nodded and floated his hand over the table. “With everything above the surface.”
“For as long as it takes.”
“Agreed,” Bailov said with a firm nod.
“Is there a customary way of sealing a deal in Moscow?”
Melko placed a bottle of vodka on the table. “Will this do?”
164SUNDAY, MAY 14, 1961, 3:30 P.M.Moscow
The sun was out but there was a cold wind, and Yepishev had pulled up his collar. “Winter dies as hard as some men,” Talia said as she approached him. He had sounded relaxed when he called and asked her to meet him, but now that she could see his eyes she knew that he was deeply troubled.
“For you,” he said, handing her a small envelope.
She read slowly. “Where did you get this?”
“It’s reliable; that’s all you need to know.”
“Who is Kasi?” she asked, checking the name to be sure she had it correct.
“A fanatic who works for Shehu and takes care of certain unpleasant tasks.”
“A killer?”
“That’s one of many labels that could be applied.”
“So he’s left Albania. What of it?”
“I have other sources who report that he and his female companion were in France earlier this year.”
“When?”
“At the same time that certain Albanian expatriates were being killed in Paris.”
“The French said that a young woman was involved in at least one of the murders.”
“Yes, I thought of that. It’s unusual for the Albanians to employ a woman.”
“How unusual?”
“I know of no instance since the war.”
Talia stared at the paper. “What is this?” she asked, looking at a list of five addresses.
“Kasi and the woman flew to Vienna from Rome. They went to Italy by diplomatic shuttle. They may be at one of those addresses.”
“You’ve confirmed that they’re in Vienna?”
He nodded.
“How does this connect to Lumbas?”
“They’re Albanians, and Kasi is Sigurimi. I leave final solutions to you. My expertise is in collecting information, not in its analysis.”
“Nothing in this situation seems to come together neatly,” Talia said.
“Which suggests that your adversaries have planned well.”
She smiled. “You said your forte was not analysis.
”
“I point to the obvious. There’s no great analysis required.”
She looked at the addresses again. “You didn’t happen to have these places checked out?”
“Your job. I didn’t want to tip any balances. It’s best to respect boundaries.”
“We’re indebted to you.”
“Perhaps,” Yepishev said, added, “Do svidanya,” and was gone.
When she emerged from the birch forest Talia saw her husband and went to him. “You’re going to Vienna,” she said. “Today.”
165SUNDAY, MAY 14, 1961, 4:40 P.M.Vienna
Albert was in a talkative mood, with Ali compliant. “Besides the obvious news value, what is it about this summit that interests you so much?”
Mignonne Mock poured coffee into two bowls, added cream and pushed one to her new photographer. “Breathe a word of this and I’ll cut your balls off,” she said. “Reuters has asked me to follow up a lead that could be extremely important. If I can confirm the story there will be a correspondent’s position for me in Berlin, and I want that job badly. In this life you have to go after the things you want.”
“As good a philosophy as any,” Frash said. “You’re more direct than most.”
“News is a vulture’s business. I’m not good at sharing and I can’t trust my fellow Austrians.”
“Which is why you chose me. Are you good at your work?”
“If you mean am I prominent, the answer is probably, but most of my competitors would describe me as notorious. And a bitch. They always include that.”
“You thrive on notoriety?”
Mock flashed a hard smile. “On the contrary, but I accept it when it means that people fear me and give me space. In my kind of journalism having space to maneuver is critical, and now it’s particularly so. Until recently a General Major Zakharov was in charge of Soviet forces in East Berlin. He’s disappeared. An informant told Reuters that Zakharov will come to Vienna as the head of Soviet security.”
“It’s not unusual for officers to be transferred. It happens in all armies.”
The Domino Conspiracy Page 57
