Black Wolf, page 37
There was a collective expression of surprised outrage.
Kavalchuk continued speaking, his voice calm and steady. “Moscow will assume that the silence from American intelligence is an affirmation of her spy status. They would otherwise make a lot of noise over a missing US citizen. She will just be another CIA officer missing in the line of duty. Another star on the Memorial Wall at Langley. I strongly urged the real Donleavy woman to never again put a foot on Soviet ground, ensuring that our little secret stays safe. I now direct you to the third page of the report.”
After a few moments, Lavrov from internal affairs, whose narrow frame and pallid complexion had earned him the nickname the Undertaker, started stabbing at the file with one sharp finger. He said, “Two KGB agents shot. Melvina Donleavy abducted by the Bratva. How did you track her down?”
Kavalchuk turned to Lavrov. “The Bratva only kidnapped her. Soon after, she was delivered to the man we now know was the Svisloch Strangler. This was verified by certain members of the Brotherhood following rigorous interrogation. As you know, Minister Lavrov, I have been working diligently to find the Strangler.” He glanced at Kobets. “The chairman had a special interest in one of these cases.”
Kobets’s face turned scarlet. It was not a state secret that he had a mistress, but he didn’t want to discuss his private life here.
“There is no such serial killer,” Kobets thundered.
The skin under Kavalchuk’s right eye had begun to twitch. “At the dacha where Melvina Donleavy was rescued, my men discovered twenty-six buried bodies in various stages of decay. Including the badly decomposed body of a once-famous Byelorussian gymnast. Some of these women were from Minsk, others were most likely taken from different towns and villages.”
Kavalchuk waited for the shaken chairman to collect himself.
“One Corporal Yurov of the militsiya here in Minsk put forward a suspect, based on his intimate knowledge of the man, as well as clues uncovered from the previous killings. I have recommended Yurov for a promotion.”
Zakharenko stubbed out his cigarette. “What do you mean, ‘intimate knowledge’?”
“What I mean,” Kavalchuk said, “is that the Svisloch Strangler, the ‘serial killer’ as it were, was Director Oleg Shevchenko of the Heat and Mass Transfer Institute, Colonel Yurov’s uncle.”
Ivanov started to stand, but his legs gave way and he collapsed back into his chair. “It’s not possible.”
“And where is Shevchenko now?” Zakharenko demanded.
“He was shot and killed.”
“By whom?”
“By me.”
All the crimson in Kobets’s face drained away, leaving him with the pallor of the deathly ill. “One of the most important men in Byelorussia, with ties to the scientific community worldwide. This will bring disaster to our move toward sovereignty. A scandal of epic proportions.”
“No, it will not. And I’m going to tell you why.” Kavalchuk paused, carefully taking his one cigarette of the day out of his coat pocket. He used the defense minister’s heavy gold lighter to ignite it. He took his time—reminding the flock that it’s not the wondering if the teeth will be shown but the dreading of when they’ll snap shut.
Enjoying the tension in the room, he inhaled deeply and turned to Lavrov. “As head of internal affairs, you will make a public announcement that the Svisloch Dushitel was a member of the Bratva and that he was tracked down and shot by officers of the KGB. Let the public know that the remains of the murdered women will be processed by our medical examiner for identification for the families. The body of the Strangler, I will provide. Fortunately, we have three from which to choose.
“Secondly,” he said, turning to Ivanov, “it was discovered by the medical examiner that Shevchenko was dying of stomach cancer. As his closest comrade, you will address the members of the institute, telling them that he was greatly depressed and committed suicide. A single gunshot to the head. And, as your closest comrade, Shevchenko will have sent you a letter telling you of his intent to save himself from a terrible, lingering death. I will, of course, provide the suicide note, and you can hand-deliver it to his widow. He will be buried with all the honors due to a high-ranking Communist Party member in good standing. Thereby keeping his reputation, and ours, intact.”
He moved to stand in front of Zakharenko, who had loosened the buttons on his uniform to ease his labored breathing. “I’m sure I can rely on you to supply men and equipment in our continued efforts to eradicate the Bratva from our midst. Nothing attracts foreign investors like safe streets. The revelation that the Strangler was one of the Byelorussian Mafia is the opening we’ve needed to counter this ‘war hero’ rhetoric. Our citizens won’t care how many Afghani mujahideen a soldier has killed if he’s coming home to murder our sisters, wives, and daughters.”
He shifted his gaze to the chairman. “Comrade Kobets, I know about the Persepolis project. And by now the CIA will too. A statement to the US State Department of your shock and dismay over the discovery of this clandestine project, as well as assurances that the Iranian scientists will never again be given entrée into Byelorussia, will go far to strengthen our ties to the West.”
Kobets curled his hands into fists. “Persepolis was bringing millions to Byelorussia.”
“No,” Kavalchuk said, his carefully modulated voice rising. “Iran was bringing millions to a few in this room. It’s not an exaggeration to say that Stalin killed the best and the brightest of his countrymen, fearing a coup by men smarter than himself and leaving an intellectual vacuum that we’ve still not rectified. With idiots such as Shevchenko heading up our nuclear program, we would have another Chernobyl on our hands. Or worse, a nuclear war initiated by men who are still living in the Dark Ages.”
Kavalchuk placed both palms down on the table in front of Kobets, causing the chairman to sit back in his chair. “Do you realize that our fellow comrades have begun to identify not as Russians or Byelorussians or Ukrainians, but as Chernobylites? A new nation, without pride, without honor, without purpose. A faulty facility run by imbeciles did this.
“No,” he said, emphatically, straightening and picking up the chairman’s file. He tucked it tightly under his arm. “I am first and always a Byelorussian. And there is not a person in this room who can doubt that I will use whatever methods I have to defend her against ignoble opportunists. Especially if those efforts threaten to kill multitudes of our countrymen indiscriminately.” He looked at each man in turn. “Any man who challenges this is welcome to come to KGB headquarters and read his personal file, written in blue ink and in triplicate. I will gladly give the tour personally.”
He stood for a moment, comfortable in the silence, knowing that each member had been reminded of where the true power lay. As long as the central KGB committee in Moscow existed, he, Martin Kavalchuk, would be the true seat of power in Minsk.
“But I am also a practical man,” he said, appearing to soften, “and what I’ve offered is a practical solution. I’m sure that there will be plenty of other tempting opportunities to try to skim the cream. The Americans are notoriously lax in accounting for their foreign spending.”
As Kavalchuk picked up the other three reports, Zakharenko asked quietly, “Why was the First Directorate so keen to obtain Melvina Donleavy?”
Kavalchuk paused as though considering how much to reveal, taking his time crushing the stub of his cigarette into the ashtray. “A Russian source inside the CIA messaged to Moscow that the Americans had a kind of…savant at Camp Perry. He reported that she could be shown a photo of a target for thirty seconds, only to pick out the individual in a crowd of thousands.”
“Ridiculous,” Kobets muttered.
Kavalchuk shrugged. “Moscow wanted her for their psyops program. I found out about this only after speaking to the envoy from KGB Central.”
“And now they have only a body,” Lavrov said. “At least Moscow will now leave us in peace. You will get a medal for these actions.”
The KGB chairman placed the four reports inside his briefcase and locked it. When he turned to face Lavrov once more, the man blanched and pretended to study his hands. “All of us in this room cut our teeth on the winter tale told by every babushka of the hungry wolves chasing the sleigh. It’s a cruel and perplexing tale, and perfectly Russian. In the sleigh are a lone woman and her two children. As the wolves are about to attack the horses, the cunning woman throws one of her children out into the snow, hoping to save herself. The child only whets the wolves’ appetite, and they renew their pursuit. The woman then throws her second child out of the sleigh, with the same result. Despite her monstrous efforts, the wolves down the horses and devour the woman.
“Comrades, Moscow will open the supposed Donleavy skull and dig and dig, looking for something singular, something unique. But they will find only the gray matter of a simple Byelorussian peasant. And when they don’t find what they’re looking for, they’ll be back. The wolves will always return, no matter how many children we throw into their jaws.
“But,” he said, exhaling with the satisfaction of a job well done, “as I am counted one of the pack, it will be others who will be eaten, for now. Perhaps some of you in this room.”
As he headed for the exit, he remembered Stalin saying, It’s not how many people vote that counts, but who counts the votes.
“I vote this meeting adjourned.”
Chapter 40
Saturday, August 25, 1990
Every city had its own smell, Mel remembered. As soon as she deplaned onto the tarmac at Schönefeld Airport, she caught the particular odor of Berlin, even though the city proper was miles away.
The flight from Minsk on Lufthansa Airlines had been uneventful, the attendant chatting cheerfully about flying the sick children of Chernobyl who’d vacationed in Berlin back to Minsk the past summer.
“Interflug Airlines brought three hundred of them into Berlin,” she whispered conspiratorially, “and all of their ‘minders’ worked for the KGB.”
“The K in this case standing for Kinder?” William had asked teasingly, holding up his glass for more champagne.
Mel had slept through the beginning of the flight, her head on William’s shoulder, his comfortable bulk obligingly quiet so as not to disturb her rest. She’d still felt the course of the hallucinogens throughout her body, a remaining glimmer that tempered the edges of surrounding objects, as though at any moment they’d run and melt like butter on a hot griddle. Or swell into a ball of light and break apart like supernovas.
When, midflight, she’d awoken, somewhat refreshed, she’d finally asked him about his experience in the KGB prison. He’d said, “Compared to my first detention with the Russians after the war, I was quite comfortable. Even so, the food was awful. I was sleep-deprived. But you had the worst of it, I think.”
The shade on the window had been pulled down, and she’d pushed it back up, letting in bright sunlight. The warmth had felt good on her face, giving her the energy to recount her last few days in Minsk. She’d told him about the interrogations by the Black Wolf, about being kidnapped by the Strangler and her night in the woods, lost and hallucinating, although she still could find no words to share what she had experienced with the great Russian bear.
Identifying Shevchenko distressed William greatly. He took off his glasses, covering his eyes with a napkin.
“I can’t believe it,” he said, choking with emotion. “I’ve known the man for so many years. I never suspected…”
She took his hand. “You couldn’t have known, William. He’d spent decades hiding in plain sight. He fooled everybody.”
“How were you rescued?”
“Martin Kavalchuk put the pieces together. It was Alexi who gave him the clues. Did you know he was Shevchenko’s nephew?”
William started to nod, and then with a dawning realization his face crumpled in agony. “Oh my God, you and Alexi! I encouraged your friendship. I put you in harm’s way.”
She didn’t want to reveal to him yet that his own release from prison was dependent on Alexi’s staying behind, informing on others who’d sought to defect. Maybe at some point in the future when they were both not so emotionally raw she could tell him the truth. “Both Martin and Alexi came to the dacha to rescue me. Martin shot and killed Shevchenko. If he hadn’t come when he did, I’d be another one of the Strangler’s victims.”
“What did Martin Gregorivich say to you at the airport?” Kavalchuk had accompanied Mel and William all the way to their plane.
“He said…he told me he admired my fortitude.”
William shook his head in amazement and called for more champagne. After downing a few more glasses, he fell into a deep sleep. When a meal was placed in front of Mel, she looked down, dismayed, and immediately covered it with a napkin. It was mushroom soup.
Mel gazed out of the window at the cloudless sky, revisiting the few days following her rescue. She’d been taken to a hospital and treated by the same doctor who’d given her the injections at the KGB headquarters. He was still stiff and unfriendly, but he assured her she would be released, and free to return to the West, within forty-eight hours. She didn’t fully believe him, especially as there was a KGB officer always stationed outside her room, but she was determined to get back to Berlin even if she had to walk there in bare feet. Her ordeal at Shevchenko’s dacha had only strengthened her resolve: she was an American intelligence officer, and she would complete her mission, no matter the cost.
She’d been given a single room in a wing that seemed to house no other patients. They’d drawn blood, examined her for assault, treated her wounds. She was allowed to take a bath for the two nights she was there, enabling her to do her usual recognition processing. And as her body recovered, she began to experience moments of intense, delirious, triumphant elation. Even staring at the concrete walls of her room couldn’t dampen this powerful, mystifying optimism. Did everyone who narrowly escaped death feel this way? Her occasional outbursts of manic laughter, as she thought again and again of all that had happened, and how close she had come to dying, caused her stoic nurses to look at her with growing suspicion that perhaps she’d suffered a nervous breakdown.
When they finally released her from the hospital, she was given new clothes and shoes and picked up in a long black car, a sleek GAZ model, favored by the KGB leadership.
William was in the backseat, Martin Kavalchuk situated next to the driver. Mel, relieved beyond words to see William again, alive and well, impulsively hugged him, letting go only when he gently untangled her arms from around his neck. He squeezed her hand and signaled for her not to talk. Kavalchuk neither spoke to them nor looked at them until they reached the Minsk-2 airport, where the two men escorted them to their gate. As William went ahead, Kavalchuk had taken Mel’s elbow and pulled her aside.
“Are you well?” he’d asked. “Do you need anything before the flight?”
“Yes…I’m…” Her eyes filled with tears. There could be nothing more disturbing or disarming than a proven killer being solicitous. Her body felt unmoored, as though gravity had lessened its hold, her arms so weightless she worried they’d float up above her shoulders. She willed herself to absorb her tears; she would not cry in front of him. “You saved my life.”
He gave her a formal nod but didn’t respond. She was acutely aware of the stares from the other passengers, who instinctively moved farther away until the two of them stood in an island of quiet. Even the bray of the intercom had ceased. She watched all the other passengers to Berlin boarding the plane, including one little girl holding a stuffed toy bear wearing a Russian hat. For a moment Mel had felt the bright burning in her chest that she’d experienced while hiding in the woods.
A flight attendant stood patiently at the departure gate waiting for her and William, who lingered just ahead under the watchful eye of their driver.
“You are never to return to the Soviet Union,” Kavalchuk said at last. “Or to Byelorussia, even if the unlikely happens and we declare independence.”
She nodded.
“When you land in Berlin and you are debriefed by your State Department and your Central Intelligence Agency, you will hear reports that the body of a woman named Melvina Donleavy, killed by members of the Bratva, was transported to Moscow by the First Directorate. You must tell your handlers not to dispute this. If you are dead to the KGB in Moscow, they will not come looking for you. Do you understand?”
She nodded again, remembering the woman on the autopsy table. Her doppelgänger.
“I would imagine that you will want to stay in the United States for a while to recover fully,” he said.
“Perhaps.” She searched for a glimpse of William, still standing next to the driver. She’d not seen Kavalchuk even glance in his direction. The Black Wolf had played chess with William every week for almost a year but was treating him as though he were a stranger. She wondered if they’d exchanged their final words at the prison.
William met her gaze and raised his eyebrows in concern. She signaled that she was all right.
“I want to show you something,” Kavalchuk said, reaching into the pocket of his black coat. He pulled out what looked to be a grainy security photo of two men in close conversation. “Look at this. Memorize these faces. I am right, am I not, that you will forever after recognize these men?”
“Who are they?” she asked, unnerved that he knew. When had he learned about her ability?
“The man on the left is Zana Ghorbani, although he goes by many aliases. He is an Iranian national. He was here in Minsk, briefly. Now he is in the newly declared sovereign republic of Kazakhstan, looking to secure an Iranian embassy in Almaty.”
“And?”
“Kazakhstan supplies nearly fifteen percent of the world’s uranium.”
