Jonna
Tony and I watched the first act of Coppélia—a love story about a doll maker whose greatest desire is to create a beautiful doll with a soul—oblivious of its grandeur. The Soviets spared none of their scarce resources for their beloved national ballet company; the scenery and costumes were breathtaking, and the depth of talent in the cast was amazing—unmatched anywhere in modern times for classical ballet.
But tonight, we were somewhat immune to the theatrical display on stage.
We were focused instead on another performance about to take place in this hall, knowing that everything hinged on perfect timing and execution. Done right, it would be a classic demonstration of hiding the smaller motion within the larger motion—the very mantra of magic, illusion, and misdirection.
We sat with our hands and fingers entwined and our minds going over important details while we tried to breathe evenly and will our bodies to stay loose. Only with great care and exquisite planning had our fellow players made their way here to this country and this city in order now to be in position in this theater.
The houselights came up for the intermission. It was finally time.
Immediately, the audience leaped to their feet in typical Soviet style and began racing up the aisles to the lobby. There they pushed their way to the escalators and dashed up to the top floor of the great hall in an effort to be first in yet another Moscow queue. But this time the obligatory line was worth the trouble, for it led to the sumptuous spread of refreshments available at all Bolshoi performances. The most-sought-after items were the champagne and blinis with caviar, reasonably priced to accommodate the budget of the average Muscovite, but there were many other rich dishes to choose from.
Tony and I, working in concert to keep track of our players in the chaotic moment, were propelled by the crush up the aisle and toward the lobby. He held on to my arm for dear life—once separated, we could be swept dangerously apart.
We spotted Clint Bradley and Rose Cohen moving with the phalanx of babushkas who always led the charge. The standing Muscovite rule was, “If there is a line, get in it. You can always use whatever it is—for barter if nothing else.” The great hips of the babushkas were perfect battering rams. Unsuspecting novices competing against them would find themselves sent reeling out of line at the refreshment table, only to turn around to find it was some old grandmother barging her way in with a hip like an ocean liner. I suppressed a smile, hoping that the slender Rose would be able to protect herself.
Then I spotted ORB—Petr Leonov and his wife, Lara, were making their way to the lobby by the parallel aisle, and arrived in the crowded lobby about the same time as Bradley and Cohen.
I picked out two of the KGB watchers assigned to the Soviet couple, elbowing their way toward the packed escalators and following their prey like two great white sharks cruising through the crowd and leaving a wake behind them.
The handsome Soviet couple made their way down the escalator to the next level, where the huge cloakroom and rest rooms were located; ORB in his well-tailored dark dress uniform, his blond hair in a closely cropped military brush cut, and his petite wife in her stylish gown. On closer inspection, her long dark hair was slightly tinted with the fashionable henna color preferred by Muscovite women of status. Her high cuff of a necklace glittered in the crowd. Clearly they were privileged members of the apparat.
It was time for my scene—time to enter stage left.
I took a deep breath, focused my thoughts, and turned to Tony. “I’m going to powder my nose,” I said as nonchalantly as I could. “I’ll see you upstairs. Be a dear and see if you can nab me a champagne.”
Tony
Jonna looked terrific in her long gown, her newly long hair gently coaxed up into a twist. There were small wisps of hair that hadn’t quite made it that I found very tender. That Japanese thing about the nape of a woman’s neck—it never failed to move me.
Carrying her favorite fashion accessory, a large, black Gucci bag with a big double G for a clasp, she was about to commit herself to the riskiest part of the operation. Once it was put into motion, there was no going back for any of us, and no room for a miscue. While we had both taken risks with some frequency in our careers, this particular night we were playing for the highest stakes possible.
I looked into her eyes for an instant, trying to memorize her impassive face.
“I’ll do my best to score some bubbly,” I said softly. “Don’t be long.”
I gave her a peck on the cheek and then she moved away through the crowd.
I headed toward the escalator, planning to position myself far above the action to monitor the couples and their respective watchers, ready to sound the alarm and direct the players in the event of a change of plan. Mine was more the role of stage director than supporting actor. The women would not look up; the men would pause occasionally, scanning the height and breadth of the hall, seeming to admire its architecture and marveling at its soaring height and the enormous crystal light fixtures hanging four stories above them, thereby giving me an opportunity to signal them if there were problems only I could see.
Jonna
As I headed for the ladies’ rest room, I tried not to move too quickly.
The last thing I wanted to do was to attract attention to myself.
Rose and Lara, independently, entered the enormous ladies’ room on the cloakroom level shortly after I did. The room was completely lined in white marble, including the floor, and every noise was greatly magnified—a voice, the clicking of a hundred high heels, all together a cacophony of sound that was almost deafening.
Vicki arrived last.
I seemed to be scrutinizing my hair in the mirror when, in fact, I was counting heads. When all were present, I applied a small dab of powder and moved away from the mirror.
Although Rose and Lara each had their own KGB watchers, the surveillants were comfortable waiting for them outside the powder room, knowing that the attendants in the rest rooms would keep their eyes open and quickly report to authorities any strange goings-on, especially by foreigners.
I entered a stall toward the end of the huge room, setting my oversized black bag down just inside the door, where the attendants and anyone else could easily see it.
Shortly after that, the door to the stall next to me opened, and I spotted Vicki’s Berioska bag being set down on the floor to my left.
Moments before Vicki’s entrance, I had seen Lara enter the stall to Vicki’s left.
Then, the stall door on my right closed, and I heard the latch slide into place.
Even the eagle-eyed attendants, however motivated they might be, could not possibly see the small, round cloakroom disks needed to claim one’s outer garments being exchanged under the sides of adjoining rest room stalls, or a Berioska bag that slid from one cubicle to the other. The jeweled necklace collapsed into a handful of sparkling stones and old gold as it was handed off. Hairpins and rubber bands were put on and taken off, securing or freeing loose strands; other pins were flushed down the toilet.
Unadorned, Lara, Rose, and Vicki were three women who already looked quite similar, and of course, that was not by accident. Their height and hair were similar, and even their clothes were confusingly alike. Their faces, though, were different. But then, surveillance teams seldom had the opportunity to watch faces; they followed profiles and whatever other prominent and easy-to-spot handles they were given.
Tonight, two KGB teams were following two women with long, dark hair, both of whom were wearing long, dark gowns. It could be confusing in a crowd, couldn’t it?
Another watcher was on me—the American woman with the large black purse. Unless I had tripped some wires upon my entry to the country, I wouldn’t be of any particular interest to my watcher, other than as another routine assignment on a cold night.
With all the other persons of interest in tonight’s crowd, these teams certainly wouldn’t be the only KGB surveillance teams in the hall. None of the teams would communicate among themselves, however, but only with some central control.
Tony
The muscles in my shoulders grew tense as I waited, and I could feel the pulse in my carotid artery quicken its pace. All of my body’s little emergency signals, like perspiration, seemed exaggerated in a tuxedo.
As I watched from above, one by one the ladies left the women’s room and moved into the crowd on the lower level. The first one to emerge was a female champagne attendant, wearing the standard white uniform, followed closely by Lara, easily spotted because of that distinctive necklace and her dark hair pinned up in an elaborate bun. Next came Rose in her long black dress, her dark hair flowing down her back and over her shoulders.
A moment later, Jonna exited the rest room, shot me a look and a smile, and headed for the escalators to join me for champagne upstairs.
Clint and ORB were in close proximity near the cloakroom for an instant, but no one could pick this out in the crowd unless they knew exactly when it would happen.
Later, both couples were sighted separately on the escalator and by the champagne carts in the refreshment hall. It was a little dark at the end of the hall, back by the carts, where they kept the cases of backup champagne, linens, and the serving accessories.
Vicki and Johnny had already attended three other events at this theater in the past two weeks as part of their tour, and at each intermission they had noted that the setup and serving of the champagne was always the same, but the servers were a different crew each time. That observation had been useful information.
I could see Clint’s and ORB’s respective surveillance teams get a little tangled up once or twice in the various halls and on the escalators. Then, for a heart-stopping moment, Jonna and I both witnessed the confusion in the hall when the lights flickered to announce the end of the intermission. Somehow, ORB and his wife were missing in the confusion of the crowd, and their surveillance team panicked briefly. They quickly relocated them, however, and settled down as the crowd jostled them all down the escalators once more.
Lara’s necklace was clearly visible, even from behind.
Jonna took the glass of champagne from my hand and held it out to me with a dip of her head. “Nice plan, Tony,” she said.
I returned the gesture, and we stood there with both of our glasses raised. “Nice execution,” I replied. “It’s always in the details, isn’t it?”
We sipped our champagne, scanning the crowd four stories below us with practiced eyes. They were gone.
No one noticed when two of the champagne attendants in their floor-length white aprons and white brimless hats drifted to the back of the hall and pushed the button for the service elevator. As the elevator doors closed, one of them looked vaguely as if he had a certain military bearing in spite of his disheveled appearance, and the other was a pretty, delicate-featured, flushed young woman.
Meanwhile, inside the theater, the switch had been made. Clint and Rose, wearing the same clothing and hairstyles that the Russian couple had arrived in, were in the seats that ORB and Lara had been in prior to intermission. Likewise, Vicki and Johnny, the only couple without surveillance, and whom we were counting on to not be missed until their tour bus left at the end of the performance, were equally prepared with attire and coiffure for the shift into Clint and Rose’s seats.
No alarms had gone off. So far, so good.
Subterranean Moscow
The ninja heard the manhole cover up above him opening, then clanging shut.
It was too dark to see who came down the rust-covered iron ladder, so he remained hidden in the shadows until he could be certain who it was.
“Ready to rock and roll?” The heavily accented recognition signal came as a whisper in the dark.
The ninja turned on his IR helmet light, and through his goggles, saw that the source of the whisper was still wearing a white apron.
ORB quickly removed the prop.
The ninja handed over a spare pair of IR goggles. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he said. “I have the jukebox right here.”
They moved an ancient gate, and then ORB could see into the abyss beyond. A cloud of sewer gas enveloped them, sickening them with its stench. They entered the lower depths of an arched brick sewer; all they could see beyond the sweep of the IR beam was black everywhere.
ORB moved forward smartly as if he knew exactly where he was headed, then he stopped and drew back. He made a sign for silence. The ninja melted into the shadows, and ORB looked straight ahead into the unfathomable caverns. Then ORB made the signal to move forward.
They walked gingerly across the gleaming, stinking, slime-covered brick ledges that hung on the sides of the seemingly never-ending tunnel.
Traveling onward, they encountered a metal security door, which guarded a six-foot-wide brick tunnel. ORB put his shoulder to it, and the ninja joined in. First there was a groan and then a scraping noise as the door slid away from its pocket in the masonry. They pushed through sideways, and after several minutes were in a section of the now burgeoning cavern laden with telephone trunk lines and other mechanical conduits. They vaulted over bulkheads and shinnied down a brace of ductwork leading two or three stories down to a great hall of technical underpinning.
The ninja could tell they were deep under the Kremlin. His shoulders screamed under the load of the heavy device he had worn on his back for hours.
ORB pointed up at a bundle of the cables emerging from the roof of the tunnel.
The ninja unhooked a compact, titanium telescoping ladder from his web-gear.
After the final act of that night’s stunning performance, the admiring crowd gathered and donned their wraps down in the cloakroom.
The roar of voices in the large hall was almost overpowering as the elated balletgoers praised the performance.
Clint Bradley and Rose Cohen were arranging their coats, hat, and shapka while immersed in the jostling crowds of people doing the same thing in front of the huge mirrors. He reached into an interior pocket of his suit and retrieved a small glass ampoule, which he broke quickly in his handkerchief. He then leaned down and wiped his and Rose’s shoes with the dampened cloth as though removing dirt or mud.
As the crowd streamed over the long bridge through the Trinity Tower gate and across to Kutafia Tower before descending down onto Prospekt Marksa, two KGB Second Chief Directorate plainclothes officers moved out of the shadows, stepping in behind a couple strolling leisurely down the cobbled narrow street through the softly falling thick snow.
The man was wearing what appeared to be a military-style cap and a long camel coat. The woman was dressed in a floor-length green coat and wearing a particularly handsome gray shapka and carrying a gray muff. Both items were made of silver fox, a favorite fur in this part of the world, being both warm and beautiful.
The KGB officers moved forward quickly, coming parallel with the couple and each taking an elbow. Stopping suddenly, the KGB men spoke loudly to the couple and began leading them down the street toward a black Volga waiting at curbside, passing under a streetlight as they did so.
“To whom do we owe this honor, comrades?” asked Bradley in fluid Russian.
He removed his American diplomatic ID card from his coat pocket and handed it to the KGB officers.
The two KGB officers were startled. They scrutinized the pair under the streetlight, realizing these people were not the couple that they were after. The man’s camel-colored topcoat had the same look as that worn by Comrade Leonov, but his beaked hat, similar to a KGB dress cap, had the dark braid of a black Greek fisherman’s cap, now all the rage for gentlemen’s formal winter wear. The woman’s hat, muff, and green coat also matched those worn by Mrs. Leonov. But their hair was all wrong; she had removed her shapka, and her elaborately styled, upswept hairdo and the man’s close-cropped blond cut were clearly western hairstyles. Their size was right, their gait matched, the clothes had seemed right, but the details were all wrong. The faces were wrong!
The men looked down at the couple’s shoes and then at one another. They had strong reason to suspect that the soles of the couple’s shoes carried the secret marking dust, but there was nothing more to do.
Lacking orders to arrest diplomatically accredited Americans, embarrassed and muttering apologies, the KGB officers released the couple. They quickly set off to retrace their steps. They had made a mistake. They must have missed them somehow on the dimly lit bridge. They headed back to the Palace of Congresses, lit up like a cruise ship in the cold dark night, and began to run as they approached the building. It was not healthy or wise to lose one’s target. Bad things could happen.
Farther down the street, the Intourist bus was parked at the curb, its diesel engines idling noisily, the exhaust pipes belching a black and greasy plume, while the tour guide walked up and down the aisle of the bus, counting occupants. He turned on his heel and strode to the front again, exited the bus, and began sprinting back to the building. His count was two short, and he knew which two: the young American couple who seemed in love.
An hour later, when Bradley and Cohen entered Clint’s apartment, they realized that they were not alone. There in the darkness of their living room awaited John Winslow and Victoria Sanderson, flushed with excitement. Their coats—actually Clint’s and Rose’s coats and hats and that Burberry scarf—were lying in a pile on a chair.
Without turning on the lights or speaking, Clint walked over to the couple and motioned them to the side of the room where the sofa was located. As their eyes grew used to the dark, Clint went into the kitchen and emerged with a tray holding a bottle of champagne and four glasses.
At the sound of the champagne cork popping, the Russians monitoring the audio devices at the command center gave each other quizzical looks. After they heard a whispered giggle and clinking glasses, they looked at each other again and smiled. Some universal behaviors needed no explanation.
Outside the window the snow began to come down more heavily again, almost obscuring the view of the street, which was swallowed up in the silence of the blizzard.
Jonna
The next morning, Tony and I rose early and retrieved a copy of Izvestia, the newspaper that was promptly delivered to our doorway each morning—one of the few things that still seemed to be done on time in a country coming undone. It was placed there by the floor attendant, another of the controls found in every hotel in the city. There was no coming or going from hotel rooms that was not noticed and recorded by floor attendants.
Since we were traveling in alias as a couple, although not married, there was no problem with our sharing a room. Such was not an uncommon situation during operations, and sometimes it could be unpleasant and a real test of one’s professionalism. Other times, like now, it was serendipitous.
We returned to bed with the paper, snuggling back in under the fine down comforter that had warmed us all night. In the paper there was a glowing review of the Bolshoi’s production of Coppélia.
There was no other news of interest to us, a great relief.
We set the paper aside and called room service, ordering champagne, scrambled eggs, blinis, and caviar for breakfast.
For very good reason, we felt like celebrating.
The hyper–listening device—reverse-engineered with ORB’s expertise based on the design of a particular KAPELLE that had gone missing two years earlier—had been placed on the trunk line, where ORB had identified a “bust-out,” or a juncture where traffic from the Kremlin’s communications center could be read in the clear, before encryption.
After their underground mission the previous night, the ninja and ORB had collected Lara, hiding inside a designated sewer entrance, and they had traversed through the tunnels to a place near the Moscow Zoo. The couple emerged in disguise, collected their son, waiting for them in the company of a trusted escort, and disappeared into the night.
Some days later, ORB, Lara, and young Dmitri were to pick up a dead drop package in a park in a Baltic capital. This would provide them with the wherewithal, travel documents, and details for their trip west; this Baltic state had already taken the brazen step and declared its sovereignty from the U.S.S.R. some months before.
Clint Bradley and Rose Cohen departed Moscow on a permanent change of assignment two weeks later, as had long been scheduled. Bradley returned to headquarters, where he was assigned as a deputy chief in the Internal Soviet Operations Group. His first tour overseas was regarded as highly successful, and he was considered to be on the fast track, a rising young star. Cohen was sent on a lateral assignment to Paris, where she would have a plum position chasing high-priority technology-transfer targets—individuals and firms attempting to siphon away classified American know-how.
Johnny Winslow and Victoria Sanderson departed Moscow with their tour group. When they had arrived back at their hotel after the ballet, they had been berated by their irate tour guide, who told them that he could have lost his job because of their violation of the rules. They apologized for their carelessness in missing the bus.
Upon their arrival home, Vicki and Johnny were both given one week of administrative leave. For her, it was enough time to recolor and restyle her hair to its original color. Because of the highly compartmented nature of the ORB operation, the majority of their peers never knew that the operation had taken place or even that they had been out of the country. Their SST colleagues were happy to have them back, however, and rumors soon began to spread that theirs was more than a friendship.
Tony and I knew how such things could happen.