The blue street lamps were extinguished one by one, conceding the snow-covered streets to the grey half-light of dawn. Across the city dogs spoke to one another, making the most of the early morning stillness before traffic and many human voices gathered to exclude them, but Dzerzhinsky Square was quiet. Nothing moved.
From his vantage point at the tall window the old man had an uninterrupted view of Marx Prospekt and the statue of ‘Iron Felicks’, who had given the square its name, but that was all. This tickled his sense of irony. The old man, who was paid to do nothing but watch, had nothing to do.
The room was growing lighter.
He turned away from the window and considered his spacious office. He thought he was familiar with it but he had never come to work as early as this; by spending the night there he had gained a new perspective.
The focal point of the room was a large, ornate, old-fashioned desk placed so that the natural light from the window fell directly on to its surface, bare except for a brass inkstand. To the right stood a table with several telephones and a switchboard which the old man could work himself without going through an operator. One of the phones was the ‘Kremlevka’, direct to the Kremlin, another the ‘Vertushka’, his connection with the Politburo. He often wondered if even those two telephones were safe. But he knew that such things were only relative, that in his world nothing was ever truly secure.
To the left of his desk was another, smaller table for the more mundane requirements of office routine: a diary, paper and pens, two trays, one for outgoing and one for incoming documents. The latter contained such diverse snippets of information as the number of troops currently on the frontier with Pakistan, and the name of the winner of the sweepstake as to the date when the white lines on the British ambassador’s tennis court would first be covered with snow.
One file, more bulky than the rest, lay on the desk awaiting its return to the ‘Out’ tray. His eyes lingered on it for a moment: ‘Masked Shrike’, the oldest of all his many projects and still his favourite. Years ago, quite by chance, he had met a delegate to a Party Congress; now that delegate was local secretary to the communist party of Albania, biding the old man’s time, waiting for orders from Moscow. So many long-term plans, so many projects had evolved in this room, each contained in a master file with the line drawing of a bird on the cover. The achievements of a lifetime…
The old man had read many documents during his lonely vigil, cat-napping between bouts of work. This morning, however, papers no longer interested him. Nor did he care about the quartz clocks ranged on the wall opposite the desk, each showing local time in a foreign capital, nor the priceless Persian carpet, nor the portrait of Yuri Andropov which dominated the wall above the fireplace. At this early hour of greyness and shadows the old man’s whole attention was concentrated on The Chair.
The Chair had become a legend for the men who worked in this building. The initials KGB officially stand for Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti – the Committee for State Security (although within the KGB itself they traditionally represent Kontora Grubykh Banditov, or ‘Office of Crude Bandits’). As the official name suggests it is a matter-of-fact organisation, not much given to sentimentality or myth. But there are exceptions.
For example, there is The Door. Access to the old man’s room on the third floor of 2, Dzerzhinsky Square is normally gained through oak double-doors beside the fireplace. Opposite the desk, however, is another door which seems curiously out of place in such a splendid office. It is made of steel and held shut by twin padlocks. The old man’s immediate predecessor, Andropov, hung a curtain over it and in his time the padlocks rusted. The old man did not use the door much either, but he abolished the curtain, wanting his visitors to be able to see what lay behind it.
Within the KGB many stories are told about this steel door. Shelepin, for example, was supposed to have treated it as his regular means of access; during his reign its hinges were oiled once a week. It is also said that, with the exception of the tenant of the large office on the third floor, no one who passes through The Door ever comes back; but these are only stories to frighten children.
The Chair, as it is always simply known, has an altogether different reputation. It is an old, heavy and extremely uncomfortable wooden throne, finely carved and polished to a high reflective shine. No one knows where it originally came from but it is presumed to be a relic of the Tzarist regime, once the property of an autocratic nobleman. Each tenant has his own way of trying to make it comfortable: blankets, cushions, foam rubber… But they all sit in it. No one could ever get rid of The Chair. It has become a symbol. For in it reposes supreme power, control over the daily lives of the citizens of the USSR, power extending into the heart of the Politburo itself. And in the eyes of Soviet law, The Chair is never empty.
Marshal Voldemar Pavlovich Stanov, at 73 the oldest man ever to hold the office of Chairman of the KGB, approached The Chair very slowly and lowered himself into its hard embrace. He laid his head against the carved rest and closed his eyes.
When the double doors opened Stanov did not look round. He knew it would be Colonel Yevchenko, his bodyguard and friend. No one who was not expected entered this room. As Yevchenko placed the steaming glass of tea on the desk, Stanov’s thin lips compressed briefly in a smile.
‘Thank you, Nikolai.’
The old colonel grunted and sat down heavily in the nearest chair. For a few moments neither man spoke.
He’s dying, people told Yevchenko, dying and under suspicion. You should get out while you can.
He’s old, people said to Stanov (sometimes the same people), old and useless. You should let him go. Have someone young and fit to look after you.
But neither man had so many friends that he could afford to jettison the best.
Stanov finished his tea and sucked the flesh from the thick slice of lemon.
‘We must be going, Nikolai. Is it time?’
Yevchenko nodded and hauled himself painfully upright.
‘Everything’s ready, just like you asked.’
‘Nobody suspects I stayed here last night?’
‘Just like you asked,’ Yevchenko soothed him.
They used the back stairs to the underground car-park, supposedly a fire escape but invariably kept locked ‘for security reasons’. Yevchenko had gone to no little trouble to obtain a key without arousing suspicion. Parked close up against the basement door to the stairs was a black Zhiguli, indistinguishable from hundreds of similar vehicles on the Moscow streets. Yevchenko glanced right and left before signalling to Stanov that it was safe for him to leave the shelter of the stairwell.
‘You must get down on the floor, old man.’
The endearment, permitted but rarely used, betrayed Yevchenko’s anxiety, and Stanov smiled. It was painful creasing his old bones into such a confined space, but he managed it.
‘You have the gun?’
In answer Yevchenko pressed a Stechkin into Stanov’s hand, then covered him with a blanket.
‘I’m going to put some empty salmon boxes over you. Don’t worry, they’re not heavy.’
Yevchenko took a last look round before settling into the driver’s seat. There was no one about. Moments later the car was climbing the ramp to street level.
Notwithstanding his seniority and familiarity to the sentry, Yevchenko had to produce identification before they would let him out. The check was perfunctory, however, and Yevchenko had already begun to accelerate before the barrier was fully raised. When he was cruising comfortably along Marx Prospekt he said softly, ‘It’s all right.’
There was no reply, and for a mad second Yevchenko wanted to stop and see if Stanov was still alive. He resisted it and drove on. They were going against the rush-hour traffic and in 30 minutes reached the outer suburbs of the city. Yevchenko stopped in a deserted side-street and leaned back over the seat to tug away the boxes and the blanket. Stanov sat up, blinking.
‘I said “It’s all right” and you didn’t reply, I thought…’
‘Where in hell are we, Yevchenko? Why have we stopped?’
‘I’ll drive on, then.’
Yevchenko knew better than to fuss. They completed the journey in silence. A few miles further on the car pulled up outside a block of flats which Stanov eyed with distaste.
‘Half-built rubbish. Look at that front area, it’s like a building site.’
‘You sent him to live there, remember?’
Stanov licked his lips. ‘Have you got the file?’
‘It’s in the flap of the seat in front of you.’
Stanov reached out, but before he could take the folder Yevchenko spoke again.
‘I still say you’re wrong. Why lie to him? For the last time, think…’
‘I have thought.’ Stanov’s voice was sharp with tension. ‘Have I thought of anything else these last two years? And I say… and also for the last time… I say I will not trust this man with the whole truth. For his sake and for ours, I will not tell him all of what we know. So let there be an end to it.’ Yevchenko opened the door and climbed out of the car. From the back seat Stanov noted with approval that in his plain dark overcoat and ordinary shoes Yevchenko might have passed for a civilian; he didn’t have ‘soldier’ written all over him any more. While Yevchenko leaned against the car Stanov opened the file on Captain Ivan Yevseevich Bucharensky and began to read.
Most of the details were so well known to him that he could have recited them from memory. Age 42. Trained at Dietskoye Selo. Specialities: disguise, languages, small arms. Cleared to work for Department 13 of Line F, now Executive Action Department (‘Department V’). Twenty years in the field, principally western Europe. Stanov skipped a few pages: he knew there had been several notable successes, no glaring failures, much competent work. Divorced 1971 (no children). Transferred to Centre 1979, Personnel Directorate. A poor fate for an honest worker, therefore a reader of the file must assume that this worker was not as honest as he looked. Stanov pursed his lips. That had been a good move on his part.
He turned up the assessments. Until the transfer to Centre these had been uniformly good; then they became guarded. Bucharensky was a man under a cloud, reasoned the Personnel Directorate; let us not do anything to dispel it.
Then, almost a year ago the sudden demotion; loss of pay; removal to this shoddy apartment. And what must have made it all so distressing to Bucharensky was that there had been not the glimmer of an explanation: not here in his file, not in a personal interview, not anywhere. Just the end of a career. A year ago the assessments simply stopped.
Stanov put away the file. In fact Bucharensky had never been assessed so thoroughly as over the past year. During that time he was under 24-hour surveillance by hand-picked teams who reported daily to Stanov or Yevchenko. Very few lives could undergo that treatment and not show signs of cracking. But Bucharensky had not cracked. As far as Stanov could learn, no word of complaint had passed his lips over the last 12 months. Instead he had stoically endured what must have seemed the worst thing ever to happen to him. Stanov was satisfied. He was about to entrust this man with what remained of his own life.
‘He’s coming.’
Stanov nodded to show that he had heard and squeezed into the far corner of the back seat. Through the windscreen he saw a man walking towards them, his arms laden with brown paper parcels. The face was familiar to Stanov from numerous photographs. Bucharensky did not look up from the pavement until he was almost level with the car. Then he became aware of Yevchenko standing by the open door.
‘Raise arms, please, comrade Captain.’
Bucharensky obediently put down his parcels, lifted his arms and waited while Yevchenko frisked him.
‘Get in.’
Bucharensky immediately bent down to obey. Not even the sight of the Stechkin in Stanov’s gloved hands caused him to hesitate.
‘Good morning, comrade Marshal,’ he said carefully. He sat rigidly, staring straight ahead, trying to look as though he were at attention.
‘You have been shopping, Captain?’ said Stanov, his voice testy.
‘Yes, comrade Marshal. It is my free day. I have been saving up…’
His voice tailed off.
‘Show me what you have bought, please.’
Bucharensky undid his parcels one by one, careful to preserve the paper for future use. A borodinski loaf, pickled cucumber, herring, a very small bottle of vodka. Stanov raised his eyes from these modest purchases and said, ‘You have to save up for such things, Captain?’
For the first time Bucharensky turned his head towards Stanov. ‘Yes. Comrade Marshal.’
Stanov nodded. ‘Today,’ he said, after a short pause, ‘we are going on a picnic. Don’t worry, we have brought our own food. There are many things I have to say to you.’
Yevchenko took the road to Usovo. In less than an hour they were deep in the wooded hills of the countryside. The car pulled up at the bottom of a steep, muddy track and the three men got out.
‘Now,’ said Stanov, pulling his overcoat more squarely on to his shoulders, ‘we climb.’
Even with the basket which he was ordered to carry Bucharensky found the going easy. For the two old men, however, it was a different story; they puffed and struggled up the gentle incline until by the time the trio reached the top Bucharensky was having to support the combined weights of his elderly companions as well as the hamper.
At the end of the climb they emerged on to a grassy saucer of land set into the hillside, well-protected from the wind by fir trees on three sides, with a dramatic view over the plain across which they had recently driven. This was not a place you would find by accident.
Yevchenko took a thick blanket from the basket and spread it over the nadir of the saucer before sitting down and dispensing tea. Seated on the blanket Bucharensky did not feel cold. At first he found it mildly amusing to watch the two old men bicker over the jars and containers in the huge basket, but once they began to unpack Beluga caviar, and salmon, and fresh river trout and venison his amusement was forgotten and he was conscious only of ravenous hunger. He looked away.
‘Eat, Captain. You can’t listen on an empty stomach.’
Bucharensky could hardly believe his ears. After a moment’s hesitation he took a morsel of trout and began to chew it slowly, restraining an urge to stuff his mouth as full as possible. But even while he ate his mind was alert. Why, he asked himself, why this absurd expedition? Stick followed by carrot? He recognised the technique.
When Stanov judged the moment ripe he said: ‘So as not to waste words, Captain, you may take it that your period of disgrace is over. In fact you were never in disgrace. We had to be sure of you, that’s all.’
Bucharensky had found an earthenware pot full of apricot jam boiled in brandy syrup. He had cracked the wax seal and was now taking minute teaspoonfuls of the exotic preserve, leaving long, appreciative pauses between each. On hearing these words he nodded.
‘I know, comrade Marshal.’
Stanov was enraged. ‘How can you know it?’
Bucharensky looked up slowly and stared at Stanov. He spoke with quiet deliberation.
‘Because although the KGB often makes serious and foolish mistakes it is too resourceful and too careful ever to make a mistake about the loyalty of one of its own officers, who has served it conscientiously and well.’
Bucharensky put down the spoon and folded his hands in his lap before quietly turning his head away from Stanov’s scorching stare.
‘I am sorry, comrade Marshal,’ he said humbly. ‘But I resolved that I would speak those words on the day of my rehabilitation. I did not dream, of course, that I would have to speak them to you.’
Yevchenko broke the ensuing silence by asking curiously, ‘Do you really mean that, in spite of all that happened to you, you never doubted that your position was, well… secure? Not once?’
‘Often, comrade Colonel, but I knew I had done nothing wrong.’
Stanov eyed him malevolently over his glass of tea.
‘So the KGB makes mistakes, does it?’
‘Yes, comrade Marshal.’
Yevchenko started to laugh. ‘You chose well, old man,’ he said. Then Stanov too began to laugh, and after a moment Bucharensky joined in, happy for the first time in twelve weary months.
When they were all serious again Stanov commenced the briefing.
‘Tell me, Ivan Yevseevich, tell me how you would defect to the West.’
This question rang coldly in Bucharensky’s ears. The more he focused his mind on it the less he liked it. Was there a trap? Should he tell the exact truth? He decided on a middle course.
‘I would try to reach a European city with which I was familiar. There I would approach the American embassy. Clandestinely, of course.’
‘Of course… I suppose in your case Athens might be an appropriate starting point – you were stationed there for five years.’
‘Or Brussels. Brussels for choice, although it is true I have spent time in both places.’
‘London perhaps?’
Bucharensky looked up sharply. What did they know about London? But the faces of the two old men showed nothing.
‘Certainly. Although London is not as close to Moscow as the other two places.’
‘Think about this. We know where you were stationed, it’s in your dossier. We would guess where you were probably making for. We would try to stop you.’
Bucharensky nodded unwillingly. The thought had occurred to him, but he was still wary.
‘Would you keep to your original plan?’
Bucharensky saw that they were smiling at him. He was not sure how to formulate his reply. Stanov continued: ‘I think you would. Because in those foreign cities you, like everyone else who has ever worked abroad, have money, a new personality perhaps, even a safe house. Insurance. Which we don’t – officially – know about. Am I not right, Ivan Yevseevich?’
Bucharensky nodded again. There was no hostility in these questions.
‘A moment ago we mentioned Brussels. Why is Brussels so important to us, and our finances in particular?’
‘The money-route, do you mean?’
‘Precisely. What do you know of that?’
‘Outgoing money is laundered in Brussels via the Skaldia-Volga factory payroll. Some of it is paid out there, to the Red Brigades and so on. When I was in Belgium, Baader-Meinhof used to benefit, as did ETA. Arms are paid for in Brussels – I remember the panic in ’71 when the Dutch seized Ominipol guns at Schipol because it could all have been traced back to the money-route. Then whatever is left goes on to London, Dublin and Belfast where some of it is used to arm and train the Provisional IRA, and then the rest goes to America.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s all I know.’
‘Very good. But tell me this – why is it that you, who worked in Europe for 20 years, know so little about the money-route?’
‘It was not my business to know. I had no need to know.’
‘Precisely. Everything in compartments. Share nothing beyond what you have to. Trust no one.’ Stanov paused. ‘The KGB is centralised, is it not?’
‘So they taught us at spy school.’
‘And the consequence is that only a handful of people at its head, six or seven at most, can ever hope to know most of what goes on.’
‘Right.’
‘So that below this supreme level people can see the most extraordinary things happen without being surprised, because they assume it’s no business of theirs.’
‘Certainly. I have been in just that position myself, many times.’
‘And unless the people at the top are vigilant beyond the norm these extraordinary things may escape their lofty notice?’
This time Bucharensky did not reply. His mind began to race ahead, looking for bolt-holes. Stanov continued.
‘Let me now pull together these strands, Ivan Yevseevich, so that you may see the point of all this. Somewhere in the KGB the British Secret Intelligence Service has managed to install a traitor. Putting it at its simplest, we would like you to find him for us. In order to do so you are going to defect to the West, apparently taking with you information of vital importance concerning our money-route and our project-plans. That, at least, is the story for your colleagues.’ He paused. ‘But some of those colleagues – your superiors, you understand – and the British will be told that you carry in your head the name of the traitor.’
Bucharensky blinked. The alarm bells had been sounding for some time now. He chose his next words as carefully as if his life depended on them, sensing that it might.
‘There are many local operatives, comrade Marshal, whose familiarity with the cities you mention and their referenturas…’
Behind him Yevchenko methodically started to stack plates. When he had done that he began to toss cutlery into the hamper. The jangling got on Bucharensky’s nerves.
‘The leak is not in the referenturas, Ivan Yevseevich. Those are merely the local offices of the KGB.’
Stanov allowed the silence to develop. For Bucharensky the day had suddenly become cold again.
‘Has it ever occurred to you to ask why we are squatting in this isolated spot, having come here in a beaten-up old car, armed, when we might have been sitting comfortably in my office, comrade Captain?’
Bucharensky said nothing. The question had never been far from his mind since the expedition started. Stanov turned to look him full in the face.
‘It is because I, Voldemar Pavlovich Stanov, Marshal of the Soviet Union and Chairman of the KGB am, on the express orders of the Politburo, being followed by my own Seventh Directorate!’
Bucharensky looked away and said nothing.
‘And they could be right. It could be me. It isn’t, but our problem – yours too, now – is that it could be. And on the other side it is just the same. I am convinced that one man, and one man alone, has dealings with this traitor, and that is the Head of the British Secret Intelligence Service himself. You will be flying very near the sun, Ivan Yevseevich.’
He allowed the words to sink in. Yevcheno had finished packing the basket and was listening quietly.
‘I will not burden you with the hours of work I have done in order to find this truth; suffice it to say they have been long. It is necessary for someone to spread out the whole picture on the table in front of him and go back years; that is the first thing. Only the Chairman can do it. My predecessors either did not bother or were too stupid to understand the results. Perhaps they wilfully refused to credit something terrible, I do not know. But once you have done the groundwork the truth becomes terribly simple, Ivan Yevseevich. It is, in effect, that for the past fifteen years and more we in the KGB,’ he waved his hand to embrace everyone, ‘all of us, have been missing the point.’
If he expected a reaction from Bucharensky he was disappointed.
‘It is all to do with dezinformatsiya. For years now we have successfully been feeding false information to the West. On half a dozen important occasions, however, they have either not been completely taken in or have somehow been able to retrieve their position without difficulty. And on three, precisely three and only three occasions of consummate, vital, desperate urgency, they have rejected the information altogether.’
He paused. A cold wind was blowing up from the south-east, strong enough to penetrate even this sheltered spot. Soon it would snow.
‘It does not sound much, does it? Nine occasions in all. But Ivan Yevseevich, if you were in my position and could see the Russian lives lost as a result, the man-hours wasted, the advantages thrown away… if you could add up the total damage over the years, you would mourn. And you would want to know who was responsible.’
His face darkened.
‘The first two times of vital importance it was made to look as though the information never got through, thwarted by forces of nature beyond the control of the intelligence services concerned. But the last time, a matter of months ago, I was already suspicious and so was able to inspect the scene at once. The message was borne by a man, a man so important to us that only Yevchenko and I knew his name, we thought. But the man died, a week before he was due to attend the OPEC conference and deliver such a blow to the western world as you could not dream of. When I think…’
Bucharensky looked at the old man’s clenched fists and closed eyes, fascinated. Such things were not meant for his ears.
‘There was an avalanche. He was skiing. Eighteen other people died. It was not a natural occurrence. I know it. The members of the Politburo know it. Nothing has been said openly. But we require answers.’
Bucharensky broke silence at last.
‘How soon?’
‘The beginning of July.’
Bucharensky nodded. Nearly six months. Here was something practical at last, something within his province.
‘If by then the answer is not known I shall be replaced. I tell you this because I want you to be under no illusions: the Politburo has spelled out the consequences of failure very clearly.’
He lowered his voice, so that Bucharensky was not sure whether he was supposed to hear, or if the old man was talking to himself.
‘Believe me, you are the last, the very last chance. I have tried everything. For months at a time I have concentrated on each of these six or seven candidates for the role of traitor. Nothing! I have kept them under constant surveillance: they can’t shit without me knowing the colour and consistency. I have laid false trails. I have fed them lies. I have sent each of them abroad and had them watched. Let me show you…’ He snapped his fingers and Yevchenko handed him a file. ‘This is the record of what I have done. Look at it!’
Bucharensky took the thick file. He read it quickly, skimming whenever possible, astounded at the extent of the operation, the time, the thoroughness, the lengths to which Stanov had gone not only to prevent the subjects from knowing that they were being watched, but also to keep this same information from the men detailed to do the watching. Can this be happening, he asked himself over and over again, here in the headquarters of the KGB? The whole machine turned in upon itself… it was unreal. When he had finished he stood up and walked to the edge of the clearing to stand with his back to it, staring into the forest.
Eventually Stanov called to him.
‘Nothing has worked. And every time I fail I go back to the Politburo and they say: what now, Voldemar Pavlovich?’
The old man raised his eyes to Bucharensky’s face.
‘How long have I been Chairman of the KGB, Ivan Yevseevich?’
‘Eight years, comrade Marshal.’
‘And in that time, how many sleepers do you think I have put to bed, in how many countries? How many plans? How many networks laid? How many long, slow fuses have I lit?’ He laughed suddenly. ‘Why don’t I just retire? Why don’t I go away and let someone else sort it out? I could, you know. That’s what my friends in the Politburo say! Well, I shall tell you, Ivan Yevseevich, I am not about to see a lifetime’s achievements thrown into the garbage pit. Albania!’ He clapped his fists to his forehead and closed his eyes. ‘When I think of the plans I have prepared for that benighted little country! How near we are!’ His eyes opened. ‘Do you think I am going to leave that now? Give it to some buffoon who instead of gently prising the fruit from the tree would wait for it to rot on the bough and then trample on it when it fell? No! On July 1st I shall still be here, Chairman or dead.’
His voice became a whisper. Bucharensky leaned forward, hypnotised.
‘It will be my last duty to the Soviet Union. To root out this traitor. And to save the KGB from… Kazin.’
At the sound of the name everything fell into place for Bucharensky. Kazin, the Party theoretician and member of the Politburo, a civilian without either knowledge or experience of the KGB, a man thirsty for blood and the purification of another purge, or so it was rumoured in Dzerzhinsky Square.
Other memories, other rumours came flooding back. ‘Stalin’s baby’, that is what they used to call Kazin, and for years he had wondered why. Was it because when late at night they came to take the Monster to bed they would find him sitting beside the fire, Kazin kneeling at his feet? Or did some deeper, less savoury mystery lie concealed beneath the ironic phrase? Whatever the answer, the primal influence on Kazin’s character was not in doubt. He was Stalin’s man, would be to the last… and he was one of Nature’s survivors.
For years he had been Stanov’s sternest critic, baying for reforms and a more flexible approach to the modern techniques of espionage and internal security. Now the Politburo was dangling his opportunity in front of his eyes: either Stanov succeeded or the Chairmanship of the KGB would pass from his hands into Kazin’s. Bucharensky shut his mind to it. It must not happen. No one could count himself safe under Kazin. It would not happen.
Stanov was speaking again.
‘Someone near the top of one of the departments, here in Moscow. Someone who has been so careful for so long, someone with the nerve, the insolence and the rank to say to the West: I will not help you every time, I will not be your lackey, but when it is a matter beyond life or death, a matter of your survival, then I will help you. No matter what it costs, I will be there…’
For a while the three of them sat in silence, each engrossed in his own thoughts. Stanov spoke again.
‘Let me tell you about the two occasions when this man acted, Ivan Yevseevich. The first was in Mexico, in 1971. Perhaps you know the story… ‘Nuthatch’, the operation was called. The man Gomez who was controlled by Nechiporenko from the referentura, it was his job to proclaim the Movimiento de Acción Revolucionaira. Everything was ready after years of work: explosives, arms, money. It could have set South America alight. It was brilliant… and it failed. Gomez was arrested. Five of our best agents were expelled. Total humiliation, not a voice was raised to help us. Then there was London. September 24th, 1971, 105 Soviet agents expelled from the United Kingdom. Lyalin “defected”. The whole of Department V in Europe, Asia and Africa devastated at a stroke. Pavlov in Montreal, General Vladimirov in Helsinki, Yevdotev in Bonn… the list was endless.’
‘I remember.’ Bucharensky could not help himself. ‘We were all called in. No one was left on the streets. For days we waited in the embassy cellar, crowded round the telex machine. It was like the end of the world. But what is this to do with a traitor in Moscow?’
‘Lyalin did not defect. It was a blind. He was tortured until he had told all he knew and then he was killed by SIS. He was the only agent in Europe to carry the names of the others in his head. His visit to England was supposed to be a total secret. But they knew he was coming. And they knew what even Lyalin himself did not know: that he had been doctored in such a way as to be allergic to scopolamine derivatives. The first injection of a conventional truth-drug would have killed him. But they used a massive dose of Pentothal instead. Do you begin to see? On both occasions our oh-so carefully prepared disinformation was utterly without effect. The British knew the truth.’
Bucharensky nodded.
‘It was then that I first began to concentrate my suspicions on England. Such a sensational coup did not occur in a vacuum. By jettisoning the other NATO-pact countries from the scope of the inquiry many things at once became clear. We are looking for a man with a peculiar affinity for England, perhaps someone who harbours a personal relationship with the Secret Intelligence Service. I need to provoke this man – and quickly – into betraying himself. For this I have chosen you, Captain Bucharensky.’
‘I shall be honoured, comrade Marshal.’
His voice was vibrant, and as he heard it Stanov’s hopes rose. The gamble had paid off. Here was a man he could trust, and it had not after all been necessary to reveal exactly how near ‘Masked Shrike’ was to fulfilment and for that reason how desperately Stanov needed to be back in complete control by 1st July. Perhaps it was not impossible after all…
‘Good. Then suppose the following. An officer of the KGB has fallen out of favour. Let us call him… Kyril. Everyone recognises the smell and keeps well away from him. Then one day, without warning, he is promoted full colonel, taken from his lowly quarters and installed in an apartment in the Sivtsev Vrazhek district, supplied with his own chauffeur-driven Chaika and assigned to Marshal Stanov as his personal assistant in charge of co-ordinating liaison between the Main Directorates.’
‘Since for all practical purposes there is no liaison between the Main Directorates,’ Yevchenko broke in, ‘everyone will be suspicious at once.’
‘Now this Kyril is a taciturn man,’ Stanov continued, ‘not given to gossip, and so his colleagues must speculate as best they can – and they do. Soon the news is all over Centre; soon it has reached London.
‘Then one day Kyril simply disappears. The lure of the West has proved too strong. Money, a new life… and now that he is an important man he is worth something to the British and their precious MI6.’
His voice became sharp.
‘And it is known that while in London on an earlier tour of duty this Kyril formed an attachment to a woman. A woman who never married after he left her, possibly a woman who waits…’
Bucharensky closed his eyes. He could see her face so clearly, hear her voice, feel her hands cupping his face.
Vera. They knew.
‘Do you see now, Captain, why I have chosen you for this mission? Anyone with access to your dossier will at once assume that you are making for only one possible destination – London. So much for the first, “official” version of your defection. But there is another story, one so secret that it circulates only in the very highest echelons of Dzerzhinsky Square – that Kyril has managed to uncover the name of a traitor within the Organs. Can it be true? Apparently yes, because within the hour the Chairman of the KGB has personally given the order: find this man, find him at all costs, for here is no ordinary defector. Find him alive and bring him to me alive; the fate of our country depends on it, for as well as knowing this traitor’s identity he has stolen one of our most sensitive plans. What will happen then, Ivan Yevseevich?’
Bucharensky thought for a moment.
‘The traitor will alert the British.’
‘Yes. And then?’
‘Every KGB agent in the world has been detailed to find the defector… MI6 will try desperately hard to get to him first, to protect their source from disclosure and to retrieve this mysterious plan.’
‘I believe so. The “plan”, of course, is nothing but an added bonus, a lure. But the important thing is that none of this can happen in isolation. The traitor must act. Yevchenko and I will be watching closely to see who jumps. As of that moment Kyril will become a priceless commodity to both sides.’ Stanov smiled a wintery smile. ‘He will have to be quick on his feet. Many people all over the world will urgently wish to talk to him.’
‘But comrade Marshal, where is Kyril to go?’
‘To Athens. At least at first. Then on to Brussels and London. You remember what you said earlier: if you were going to defect you would try for certain cities where you had… assets. All former fieldmen have such assets, it is well known. Kyril is no exception. He must show himself to both sides while at the same time evading them. A message will go from our embassy in Athens to Moscow, and the head of the Eighth Department of the First Main Directorate. I shall be watching, for I will know Kyril’s movements to the nearest half-hour. I will give him a detailed itinerary, to which he must stick without fail. If anything goes wrong – if that vital message from the embassy is delayed, or distorted, or slanted – then I may have found the source of the leak.’
‘I am sorry, comrade Marshal, I do not understand.’
‘The leak in our organisation, the traitor, will, I believe, have a first loyalty to the British in a case of this importance. Besides, he will be anxious to protect himself, and there MI6 will be far better placed to help, for unlike the KGB they will not necessarily have orders to take Kyril alive. So the traitor will not pass on the alert to KGB Athens, even though it emanates from the Chairman himself, without first ensuring that England has a head start on his own men. And he will not pass on anything from Athens until he is sure that MI6 is there ahead of us. He is off-balance, his life is in danger, he may do irrational things. If he does, I shall see.’
Stanov leaned forward to place a hand on Bucharensky’s shoulder.
‘You are Kyril. I do not underestimate the danger, comrade Captain. You must make sure that you are seen but not captured, not once but three times.’
Bucharensky looked him in the eye and smiled.
‘And the traitor,’ he said lightly. ‘What will he do all this time, eh? Watch with a kindly eye while I slip across Europe, ready to expose him if I fall into the wrong hands?’
Stanov released his shoulder.
‘You are right. It has to be said. At first he will be uncertain. That is when he will make mistakes and I hope to catch him out. But suppose he can survive the first dreadful forty-eight hours. He recovers his nerve. He begins to make survival plans. The British… want you alive or dead, but if the “project plan” which you are reputed to have stolen is attractive enough, better alive. The Russians, the traitor’s own men… they certainly want you alive. But he, he needs you dead, and very quickly, for if MI6 are not quick enough, and Kyril falls into my hands, and talks, then for him there is only a bullet in the Lubianka cellars. So every time you escape, the traitor’s confidence in MI6’s ability to stop you will weaken and the chances increase that he will panic and send an executioner after you, to kill you before you can be unmasked. But if he does try to kill you we shall hear of it, and that in itself will help us in our task of pin-pointing the traitor.’
‘No back-up, no emergency stand-by?’
‘Nothing. Every KGB officer in the world will have orders to hunt you down. So will every SIS agent. One of them, maybe more than one, will have orders to kill you.’ He hesitated. ‘There may come a time when SIS decide to liquidate you before you are captured by us, purely in order to maintain the secrecy which protects the traitor. I hope not. I hope that if I can convince the British that you are carrying one of our most cherished project-plans, they will delay for as long as possible in the hope of interrogating you alive. But… well.’
‘And if I get to London?’
Stanov sat back. Bucharensky could hear him sucking his teeth. The seemingly innocent question appeared to have cast a blight over the briefing.
‘Ivan Yevseevich, I am going to tell you a secret. I do not want to. But it is necessary.’ Stanov paused. Bucharensky could not begin to imagine what was coming.
‘Scattered throughout the world there are a handful of men who report only to me. They are not members of the KGB at all, not as you know it. They owe only one loyalty: to the Chairman. To me. They are in touch with no embassy, no referentura holds their files. But in their own way they are more powerful than even the KGB residents.’
Bucharensky saw that Stanov was watching him out of the corner of his eye. He was at a loss to know what to say. Such irregular agents went entirely against the whole underlying philosophy of the bureaucratic machine. To employ them was to open oneself to a charge of treason.
‘A valuable weapon,’ Bucharensky ventured cautiously. ‘As long as things go well.’
Stanov nodded. ‘You come very quickly to the point, Captain. One of these agents in England is called Loshkevoi.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Kazin says I play it too much by the book. I don’t. In fact if he knew about Loshkevoi, and others like him, who are nothing to do with any book, he would be screaming for my head even louder than he is at present. And in a way he’d be right, because I can no longer trust Loshkevoi. He has been… diverted. There is interference. Subtle, but noticeable.’
Bucharensky raised troubled eyes to Stanov’s face. The Chief had gone out on a limb, and as a result who knew how many lives were in danger. Stanov read his thoughts.
‘As you say, Captain, a valuable weapon when things go well.’ He grunted, then: ‘Find Loshkevoi,’ he said abruptly. ‘He poses as a descendant of White Russian emigrés, running a garage in South London. The address will be in the phone book. Find him and make him talk. Be careful, because he’s a powerful man. No one knows more about the money-route than Loshkevoi. He’s supposed to be my direct liaison with the Provisional IRA: banker and adviser in one. So he has both money and thugs at his back; look out for yourself. But you must get him to talk, for either he knows who the traitor is or he can give you clues to his identity. I’m sure of it.’
‘But how can you be sure?’
‘The pattern is there. All signs point to England as being the traitor’s first loyalty. The life has gone out of my most gifted, trusted agent in England. That by itself would suggest that the one we seek is using Loshkevoi as a pawn. But there is more.’
Stanov hesitated, as if trying to recall some long lost detail, to pierce an invisible veil.
‘You remember the events of 1971 in London? The September Massacre, we called it then. I was still a Deputy Chairman only, but already Loshkevoi was established. He was to attend a secret meeting with Lyalin. But he never attended that meeting. Instead the British were at the appointed place. Oh, Loshkevoi had a good enough alibi at the time. He was supposed to have been involved in a car accident. I had the records looked up, and it was true, so I thanked my stars that Loshkevoi himself was not ambushed and taken. But suppose the traitor had arranged for the records of the accident to be faked? You see? Make no mistake, Captain: the ultimate goal and purpose of your mission is to find a way into Loshkevoi’s head. Oh, I don’t play down the importance of your race across Europe…’ Stanov gazed into the distance and his voice fell. ‘I see you as a rapidly moving, highly-charged magnet, sometimes attracting others to you, sometimes repelling them, but always, always, always forcing them to move and be seen to move. It is inconceivable that the British will not seek to open new channels of communication with their precious source when they learn that you are carrying his name, and once they do I can hardly fail to detect them. All that…’ Stanov flicked his fingers dismissively.
‘But if you can find Loshkevoi and make him talk…’
Stanov paused and nodded with heavy emphasis.
‘…We shall have the name, comrade Captain. I am convinced of it. I know it. All that matters. The name!’
The long speech was over.
Bucharensky thought about his instructions. As far as he could see they led to inglorious and inevitable death. As an experienced field officer he reckoned his chances of reaching London at less than ten per cent. But… it was somehow attractive. Anything was better than the crippling desk-work in Moscow, the loneliness, the deprivations; after the year he had just endured Hell itself could not be worse. He would see he drank some good wine, smoked a few packs of decent cigarettes before the end. Perhaps he could spin it out a bit; after all, he had spent most of his adult life evading the Americans and the British; also the French, the West Germans, the Dutch… and he knew his brothers in the KGB so well, oh so very well: how they thought, and acted, and reacted. Perhaps it was not impossible. Perhaps he would get to Brussels at least. And there was Vera, always Vera…
Besides, he had no choice. Better make the best of it.
‘When do we start?’
Stanov exhaled a long breath.
‘Tomorrow. Report first thing to the Voyentorg – they have a colonel’s uniform ready for you. Then move into the new apartment, we will see you have everything you need. Take the rest of the day off. Dine somewhere expensive. Book a seat at the ballet. Kick a few arses. Make enemies. Don’t worry, I’ll back you. Act as a new member of the nomenklatura should.’ Stanov nodded to Yevchenko. ‘Give him the stuff.’
Yevchenko pulled a thick leather wallet from his overcoat.
‘We are giving you this now so that you will be able to leave at a moment’s notice if you have to. Guard it carefully. Four American Express cards, each in a different name. Travellers’ cheques, $10,000. Letters of credit in Athens, Brussels and London. Four passports, all with valid visas. Back in the car, 200 rounds of ammunition.’
‘Gun?’
‘This…’ Stanov thrust the Stechkin into Bucharensky’s hand and smiled. ‘Why do you think we brought it?’
‘Credit limit?’
‘None. Although we want you also to use money and arms you have left for yourself in Greece, Belgium and London. Everything must look as far as possible as though you are genuinely defecting.’
Bucharensky took a deep breath and nodded.
‘We anticipate that if you reach London you may have to buy a house. It is the only way you can hope to protect yourself, and you will need a secure base in order to interrogate Loshkevoi effectively. Pay cash if you can, or next best thing, banker’s draft or whatever. Don’t rent; buy.’
Bucharensky was still in the grip of astonishment.
‘But comrade Marshal… I could simply disappear with all this.’
‘You could,’ observed Stanov drily. ‘In some ways you would be no worse off: evading the Intelligence services of East and West. Only then it would be for the rest of your life. We would never forget you… Kyril.’
Bucharensky laughed. ‘I can assure you I had no intention…’
‘I did not think you had. Next. No ciphers, no drops. Your isolation from Centre will be absolute and immediate from day one. You will be beyond our reach until the operation is brought to an end. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
‘One way or the other, matters should be settled by July 1st.’ He hesitated. ‘If Colonel Yevchenko and I should then be dead, papers will automatically be sent to the First Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, informing him of all we know and commending you to him as a brave and loyal officer. He may believe it, he may not; that is a chance you must take.’
Stanov rose awkwardly to his feet, waving aside Bucharensky’s offered arm.
‘There is much more to tell you in the way of detail. Your briefing will be long and thorough, but all that can wait. I’m tired and it’s getting cold out here. Any more questions?’
Bucharensky stood deep in thought for several moments.
‘One thing. You are going to put it about that I have stolen a valuable project-plan. If you’re going to make that stick it’ll have to be one I’m in direct contact with in my new job, and something attractive to the West, a plan the loss of which would scare the hell out of the Politburo as well as my colleagues. And… well.’ He hesitated, suddenly aware of his thought’s true destination. ‘It would increase the chances of SIS’s deciding to capture me alive if that plan were important, really big.’
Stanov laughed.
‘In my safe is supposed to be the only extant copy of Operation “Sociable Plover”.’ Noting Bucharensky’s startled expression he added, ‘It is the name of a bird, comrade Captain… or Colonel, as I must call you now. The file consists of about five hundred single-spaced pages and has attained “blue status”, which, as you know, means that only one copy can be in circulation at any time. When you go, that file goes too.’
‘And what is this… Sociable Plover?’
‘Nothing. It does not exist. But your colleagues – yes, and the British too – will be told that it is something we have been working on since the War, that it sets out in precise and minute detail the connection between the KGB and organised, world-wide terrorism: the history, the financing, including the money-route, the co-operation, proposed joint operations, everything, including the names of key agents, the numbers of secret bank accounts, the locations of Soviet-financed and run training centres, and much more. Can you imagine what the loss of such a file, if it existed, would mean?’
Bucharensky gaped at him. For a hostile intelligence agency the prospects would be irresistible. Mossad, for example, could use the information to wipe out the PLO as an effective Middle East force. The CIA could expose the KGB to the world as an utterly unscrupulous, manipulative gang of thugs, no better than the murderers they financed. Soviet foreign policy would be set back years. Countless trusted officers of the KGB would at best be rendered useless and at worst be exterminated as a result of such a file falling into the wrong hands.
If Stanov could make his officers, and SIS, believe that Kyril was carrying such a priceless weapon, they would turn the world upside down in their search for him.
Stanov and Yevchenko were starting off down the path. Bucharensky picked up the hamper and followed them, his mind still reeling under the impact of what he had been told.
‘The possessor of Sociable Plover,’ said Stanov over his shoulder, ‘could either dominate or effectively eradicate world terrorism, as he pleased. Its “loss” will make those vultures in the Kremlin shit their pants.’