by Erika Holzer
They had grown used to the system, he thought. They took for granted that they were slaves. And though his heart went out to these poor creatures whose lives had been reduced to day-by-day survival, he forced himself to look away. It was almost as if the mere sight of them might attach itself to his body like some infectious disease.
There was only one way to avoid that kind of living death, he knew. Never stop dreaming of freedom. From the time he was old enough to think, to reason, he never had.
Chapter 5
The limousine pulled up in front of an imposing structure. With its row upon row of windows and glossy black marble facade, the building had a guileless look—a showplace on tourist itineraries said to house government offices. This was true. The spacious windowed offices were occupied by high-ranking members of the secret police. The windowless core of the building, not visible from the street, contained one of Moscow’s most infamous prisons.
Kiril entered a small anteroom. As usual, the wooden benches that hugged the walls were filled with an odd assortment of people. Young, old, middle-aged. Shabby suits and shapeless dresses. Tensed shoulders and averted eyes. The one thing they had in common was fear.
“Go right in please, Dr. Andreyev!” the secretary said officiously.
Kiril nodded his thanks, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of knowing he was nervous. As he walked toward a burnished oak door, it occurred to him that if his brother’s office had a sign, it would have said: DEFECTIONS AND CONFESSIONS.
He walked in. As usual, his brother’s desk was in friendly disorder. Papers, books, assorted pipes, a half-eaten sandwich—and files, files, files.
Aleksei Andreyev wore a loose, ill-fitting jacket. Bits of tobacco nestled in the wrinkles of his shirtfront. His eyes behind pale-rimmed glasses were light blue with a tendency to blink rapidly. He raised his head, acknowledging Kiril’s presence, and returned to an open file.
As he settled into a chair, Kiril thought of his friend Stepan. If Air Force Captain Stepan Brodsky had had an official job description, Kiril thought with a hidden smile, it would have been FOREIGN VIP SECURITY.
He wondered if Stepan knew the trip to Canada had been canceled.
“Well?” Aleksei said when he finally looked up. “What do you have for me?”
“As you can imagine,” Kiril said, “Dr. Yanin is upset about the trip to Canada being canceled. But does his anger and annoyance mean he was planning to defect when he got to Toronto?” Kiril asked rhetorically. “Absolutely not.”
“What makes you so sure?” Aleksei responded irritably.
“For one thing, Dr. Yanin is genuinely distressed about being denied the opportunity to meet Dr. Kurt Brenner, the famous American heart surgeon. Frankly, Aleksei, I wouldn’t mind meeting Brenner myself.”
“Frankly,” Aleksei said drily, “we wouldn’t mind getting our hands on him either.”
“Whatever I can do to help,” Kiril said with a straight face just as Stepan walked in and greeted him with a warm smile.
“I take it you won’t be needing my unit to handle Canada in the near future,” Stepan told Aleksei. “What I suggest—”
Not to worry, Stepan. Canada isn’t our only ticket out of here. I’ll keep trying, and so will you. God knows we’ve been at it long enough.
Kiril remained in his chair, waiting for Aleksei to dismiss him like an office boy. He didn’t have long to wait.
“Kiril?” a preoccupied Aleksei said, gesturing toward the door.
“See you later, Stepan,” Kiril said cheerfully, getting to his feet. “You too, Aleksei.”
If you only knew about me and Stepan—and yes, about Dr. Yanin, you smug bastard. Did you really think I’d betray my mentor?
Chapter 6
Aleksei didn’t waste any time.
As soon as Kiril left, he told Brodsky to clear everything from his schedule. “Your top priority is VIP security for a two-day Four
Power summit. April 30th to May 1st in Potsdam.”
“Potsdam, East Germany? How much time do I have?”
“Relax,” Aleksei said. “You have a few months to work out the details.”
“Why Potsdam?”
“Time for a mini-history lesson, I see.” Aleksei lit his pipe and pushed back in his chair. “Glienicker,” he said thoughtfully. “It went through many architectural phases—wooden, brick stanchions with a movable wooden center to accommodate steamer traffic, and eventually a suspension bridge. What makes it unique is that half the bridge is in East Germany, half in West Berlin.”
The bridge that straddles East Germany and West Berlin!
Brodsky willed himself to stay calm. If only he were as adept as Kiril at hiding his emotions.
“What makes it historic,” Aleksei continued, “is the Potsdam Conference in the summer of 1945. It was the first meeting between General Secretary Joseph Stalin and the late Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s successor, Harry Truman. The General Secretary had charmed an ailing Roosevelt. Truman, as it turned out, was not so malleable.” Aleksei paused to take a bottle of vodka and a glass from a desk drawer. Russian style, he emptied the glass in one gulp.
“But I’m getting ahead of myself. During the closing days of the Great Patriotic War, the Nazis began blowing up all bridges leading into Berlin. Glienicker suffered a slightly different fate—a random artillery shell. By the end of April ’45, a makeshift wooden bridge parallel to Glienicker’s damaged steel had been built in order to restore the important road link between Potsdam and Berlin. Between ’47 and ’49 the bridge was rebuilt and reopened as Bruecke der Einheit. Bridge of Unity.”
“The word unity seems an odd choice to describe our relations with the West Germans,” Brodsky said drily.
“Indeed. According to some accounts, as repairs were underway in Ceceilienhof Palace on the eve of the 1945 conference, Glienicker Bridge was referred to as Bruecke der Freiheit—Bridge of Freedom—to commemorate work done by American GIs and Russian soldiers.”
Wait until Kiril hears that, Brodsky thought.
Aleksei’s pipe had gone out.
Anxious to hear more about the upcoming Potsdam conference, Stepan lit a cigarette and offered one to Andreyev, leaving pack and lighter on the desk. “What’s so important about this conference,” he pressed.
“Chairman Khrushchev and President Eisenhower will meet to discuss Berlin and a nuclear treaty,” Aleksei said, his voice—slightly thick from the vodka—assuming a conspiratorial tone. “At least that’s what the Americans, the British, and the French think the agenda is.”
Frowning, Aleksei put out his cigarette—a sure sign, Brodsky thought, that the conversation was about to come to an abrupt end. He couldn’t resist slipping in one more question. “At least give me a hint, Colonel,” he said casually.
“The Chairman has something else in mind,” Aleksei said in a tone reserved for subordinates. “Let’s just say the Americans don’t own the skies.”
* * *
KGB Colonel Aleksei Andreyev had good reason to make such a cryptic remark. His thoughts wandered back to 1957 when President Dwight D. Eisenhower had obtained the Pakistan government’s permission to park America’s super-secret spy plan—a fixed wing high altitude U2—at Peshawar Airport, from which the plane would launch photo intelligence sorties over the Soviet Union.
Now, in early April 1960, the CIA’s U2 had just flown over four top-secret Soviet military installations: a strategic bomber airfield, a surface-to-air missile test site, a missile range, and a nuclear test site.
Aleksei’s superior, General Vladimir Nemerov, was livid. Even though the American spy plane had flown hundreds of miles over the Motherland for seven hours, neither Russian MIG-19s nor their SU-9s had been able to intercept it. The CIA operation was an intelligence coup of the first order!
Another flight had been scheduled in a few weeks, several days before the start of the Eisenhower-Khrushchev summit in Potsdam. Civilian CIA pilot Francis Gary Powers was to fly his U2 high over t
he Soviet Union, photographing Soviet Intercontinental ballistic missile sites.
Aleksei smiled. This time, Soviet intelligence had been forewarned by its agents in Italy. Air Defense Forces would be on red alert.
Waiting.
Chapter 7
A pale sun peeked through dirty puffs of gray, a mid-April promise of spring. Kiril shivered in his unlined raincoat at a sudden blast of wind. Entering the café, he ordered breakfast and let his eggs grow cold as he waited for Stepan Brodsky.
“Coffee?” he asked as soon as Stepan walked in.
“Nothing, thanks.”
Kiril left a few rubles on the table to cover the bill. They walked out and headed for a construction site roughly three blocks away. With the reverberating sound of jackhammers making it impossible for listening devices to pick up their conversation, Stepan reiterated his earlier conversation with Aleksei about Americans not owning the skies.
“But where I’m going—Potsdam, East Germany—offers a golden opportunity for me to defect,” Stepan said, gripping Kiril’s arm. “I’ll be so damn close to West Berlin!”
“Then you must seize the opportunity,” Kiril said fervently. “I’ll help you any way I can.”
Don’t worry about me, Stepan. I’ll find another way out.
As if reading his thoughts, Stepan said, “A friend of mine—an American diplomat—will be at the summit. If I can make a deal for myself, I’ll find a way to include you. I have a strong suspicion that the bargaining chip for both of us is your brother’s remark about Americans not owning the skies. Something’s going on that ties in with the Four-Power summit.”
“But you can’t ask Aleksei without arousing his suspicions.” Kiril mused. “We better talk tactics, Stepan.”
Which they did, for another half hour. They agreed that Kiril’s goal was to shed some light on Aleksei’s cryptic remarks—the sooner the better. They disagreed about using the cancelled Canadian trip as the lever to get him talking.
“You know how paranoid Aleksei is,” Kiril said. “If I ask him to reinstate the Canadian symposium, he’ll conclude that my intention is to defect. After all, it really was my intention three months ago.”
“Ironic, isn’t it? But what choice do we have?” Stepan countered.
Kiril shrugged. “None.”
An hour later, Kiril entered his brother’s office, having decided on what he thought of as a direct, unapologetic approach.
“You wanted to see me?” Aleksei asked in his usual abrupt fashion.
“Is there any way that funding for the Canada trip can be found?” Kiril said, equally abrupt.
Kiril’s opening salvo predictably triggered suspicion in Aleksei’s glance. Ignoring it, Kiril pulled up a chair without asking—and on closer scrutiny realized his brother’s eyes were a bit red-rimmed.
Hitting the vodka again, Aleksei? Now there’s a piece of good luck!
“Why Canada?” Aleksei snapped.
“I’m a doctor,” Kiril said tartly. “Dammit, Aleksei, we have a lot to gain from the new heart-lung machine technology being developed there.”
“It’s not up to me,” Aleksei said, sounding somewhat mollified. “And even if it were, I have more important matters to think about.”
Fishing around in a side drawer of his desk, he took out a pint bottle of vodka and a couple of small glasses. “Join me?”
“Why not?” Kiril replied.
Especially if I can manage to nudge you from mild inebriation into borderline drunk.
They raised glasses and drank.
“How’s this for an idea,” Kiril said, pushing his glass forward for a refill. “Even if you can’t bring the Canadian trip back to life, at least leave poor Dr. Yanin alone.” He grinned. “If your men keep interrupting our surgical team’s operations, we won’t be able to function with even the outdated equipment we already have!”
Aleksei cracked a smile. “Never realized you had a sense of humor, Little Brother.”
“Never realized you drank so early in the day.”
Aleksei shrugged. “I have big problems.”
He was drinking from the bottle now.
“Pressure from the top,” he mumbled, slurring his words.
“That bad?” Kiril said, feeding brotherly concern into his tone.
No answer. Kiril braced himself and plunged in. “When you were talking to Stepan yesterday about his new assignment, you mentioned something about the Americans not owning the skies.”
“Your pal told you about the Potsdam summit, did he?”
“Only in passing.”
“So he’s being discreet? He’d better be. That goes for you too,” Aleksei said, wagging a forefinger for emphasis. “There’s an old saying—a cliché now, but true enough during the Great Patriotic War. “Loose lips sink ships.” Understand? Air Force Captain Brodsky is making our VIP arrangements is all. Know what the CIA’s been up to? Photo-intelligence flights over the Soviet Union. For a long time, our MIG-19s and SU9s couldn’t touch them.”
“That high up?” Kiril said, genuinely fascinated.
“Tens of thousands of feet.”
“But photographing what?”
“Whatever those bastards want,” Aleksei muttered. “Everything from grazing cows to surface-to-air missile test sites,” he said darkly, his normally pale face flushed with anger and alcoholic overload.
Loose lips is right! If you were sober, Aleksei, you’d appreciate the irony of this conversation.
“How long has this travesty been going on?” Kiril asked in a tone of righteous indignation.
“Long, long time. Our MIG-19s and SU9s couldn’t touch them.”
“So what are we doing about it?”
“Plenty. But not to worry, it’s almost over. The CIA scheduled another flight a few days before the Eisenhower-Khrushchev summit. And this time,” Aleksei said in an exaggerated whisper, “we’ll be ready.”
“For what?” Kiril said, puzzled.
“Think about it,” Aleksei said with the patience of a professor whose most promising student needs prodding from time to time. “We start the summit in a friendly spirit, eager to cooperate with the Americans and their British and French allies. Suddenly our missiles shoot down this spy plane—a perfect excuse for Chairman Khrushchev to explode and walk out with his delegation. The United States of America won’t be so united after that,” Aleksei said smugly. “Not only will the Soviet Union’s friends around the world condemn the war-mongering United States for threatening world peace, but many American citizens will follow their lead.”
“I don’t understand. What’s in it for the Soviet Union?”
“Leverage, Kiril. For now, how Berlin is to be subdivided. Later, nuclear treaty negotiations will be on the agenda.”
No more questions. Don’t press your luck.
Aloud, Kiril said, “I can see why you have more important things to think about than resurrecting the Canadian symposium.”
“Can you really?”
As Kiril held Aleksei’s glance, he was stunned at his brother’s abrupt transition from an amiable borderline drunk to a stone-cold sober intelligence officer—so sober that, without warning, Aleksei snapped forward in his chair.
“Breathe a word of this, Little Brother,” Aleksei said with knife-edge sharpness, “and you are a dead man.”
Chapter 8
Aleksei Andreyev was surely the most devious person Kiril had ever known. To deal with him was to encounter wheels within wheels, never knowing what was artifice or distraction, propaganda or disinformation. What Aleksei had just revealed despite his apparent drunkenness… was it an act? Why tell Kiril a state secret of the highest order? Did Aleksei have an ulterior motive? Was he using Kiril in some way? Would Aleksei have him followed to see if he ran to his friend Stepan with such explosive intelligence? Was Khrushchev’s Machiavellian plan even true?
So many possibilities, Kiril thought. How could he arrive at any definitive conclusions? He needed to be alone. To thi
nk.
After a lunch of black coffee and pirogi stuffed with cabbage, Kiril took a bus to the hospital. Luckily, there were no operations scheduled for the day. He had Dr. Yanin’s surgical section to himself.
He sat in his cubicle-sized office and processed the morning’s events, the questions he had just raised. He realized how important it was to preserve what he had just learned from Aleksei. But how?
His first impulse was to write an account of the entire episode in longhand. He vetoed the idea almost immediately. Such a report would be lengthy, cumbersome. Worse, if it fell into the wrong hands, it could turn into a death warrant.
Better to take advantage of his retentive memory and fall back on a number of key words to jog it, he decided.
He pulled out some note paper and wrote “April” on the chance that someone might read the note paper in English. Then “20” for the date—deliberately misleading; Kiril had been at Aleksei’s office five days earlier. He followed up with seven key words: Andreyev, U2, summit, walkout, leverage, Berlin, nuclear. It was meager fare, but enough to feed his memory, which in turn would permit him to recite almost verbatim his conversation with Aleksei.
As he stared at the notepaper he’d just used, he realized it was cheap Soviet stock. What if it were destroyed in handling? If, say, the ink ran? His eyes wandered absently around the room and came to rest on the microfilm version of a patient’s chest x-ray clipped to some medical report.
He leaped out of his chair. As small as his handwritten list of words was, he could render it much smaller with the microfilm machine that he’d used countless times. He went to work reproducing the list onto two tiny negatives, each roughly the size of half a fingernail.
One microfilm for me. The other for you, Stepan.
Next, a crucial last step. Where to hide his copy?
He sat back and lit a cigarette. He would need a place that was both secure and readily accessible. He was idly fingering his Zippo lighter when he cracked a smile.
