Red Traitor, page 33
Orlov had never been much of a confessions man back in the bloody days of the ’30s, when the kontora had moved into the business of mass murder. He’d spent that dangerous time attached to the headquarters of the Far Eastern Military District. A kind of in-house spy, reporting on the senior Army and Air Force officers—but steering clear of the interrogation rooms and the Gulag death factories that sprang up around the region like mushrooms.
The rest of the kontora though…Orlov shook his head at the memory. At the height of the Purges, the whole NKVD seemed suddenly transformed into a giant collective of radio-drama authors, every investigator penning his own sprawling tale of conspiracy, sabotage, and espionage in order to send more and more people to the execution pits. Murder by quota. Orlov had seen the lists, signed by his former bosses Yezhov and Yagoda and handed down the chain of command: “Adzharia, 1,500; Arkhangelsk Province, 1,250; Astrakhan Province, 2,300.” And so on down the alphabet. The month’s stipulated number of enemies of the people to be rounded up, terrorized into confession as efficiently as the kontora could devise, then quickly tried and shot.
The paperwork! A dozen documents were required to arrest, charge, interrogate, and condemn even the lowliest worker. For a senior Party member, maybe ninety pieces of paper were needed—not just confessions but cross-referenced confessions from other suspects, all interlocking, all correctly collated. And woe betide the kontora officer who got his suspects confused, his plots twisted, his accusers muddled with his accused. Such mistakes could even lead to something as horrific and unthinkable as an acquittal. That did happen. Not, of course, because the accused was any more or less innocent than the next man or woman. But because the NKVD investigator had screwed up.
Those unfortunate, bumbling kontora men were themselves quickly fed into the shredder, hurriedly charged with anti-Soviet activity, or sabotage, or even falsification of evidence. Yes—making up evidence had been both officially a crime and, unofficially, a job description. But everyone knew that these officers’ real crime had been to slow down the machine of terror, and the price was to substitute themselves for the people they’d failed to convict. The statistics, after all, didn’t care.
The kontora’s bosses, of course, had set the pace. Some men, in those heroic prewar days, had built the Revolution in bricks and mortar, constructing factories and cities in record time. The kontora’s equally passionate leaders built their personal revolution out of the bodies of the enemies of the state. The more bodies, the safer the state. And who could fault their logic? Orlov had certainly never dared—not at the time, anyway.
Orlov strode into his office, a bleary-eyed orderly holding open the door for him. He walked over to the window, surveying the spread of the bleak, gray morning light over Lubyanka Square. He read over the one-page summary confession that Morozov had signed just minutes before. Anti-Soviet feelings triggered by execution of comrades and friends before the war. Disillusionment with Communism after the suppression of the counterrevolutionary bourgeois uprising in Budapest in ’56. Anger at the warmongering political line of the Party. A voluntary approach made to British diplomats in Moscow, back in ’60. Contact made by the CIA during a business trip to Paris in ’61. Documents solicited under false pretenses from inside Operation Anadyr…and so on.
At Orlov’s prompting, there was plenty on Morozov’s long-standing friendship with Colonel General Ivan Serov. How the senior man had promised to protect his protégé; how Serov had dismissed the kontora’s suspicions as nonsense. Oh yes—Serov had been amply and thoroughly implicated from Morozov’s mouth. Not implicated in Morozov’s treason, of course. But in turning a blind eye to treason, definitely. And that would be more than enough for Orlov’s purposes.
Only one thing was missing from the confession. Morozov had said nothing about the American spy that Vasin had shot in Arzamas-16 the previous year. By the time Orlov had raised the question, the terrified suspect had been in full confessional flow, almost tripping over himself to spill whatever details could possibly keep him alive. But not a peep about the traitor Colonel Pavel Korin, not even a hint of a connection. It hadn’t sounded to Orlov like Morozov was holding back. And what would be easier for the flailing man than to confess to a connection with an agent who was safely dead?
But that was just a detail. Orlov shook his head and replaced his notes in their folder. Amazing how the world turned, he thought. A generation ago, thousands had suffered and died on just such far-fetched charges of treachery and espionage. And almost none of them had been true. And now, for once, Orlov had caught a genuine spy. A real, bona fide Yankee agent. And one at the very heart of the Caribbean crisis.
Orlov knew that what he held in his hands was dynamite. And therefore dangerous. It was poison for the old bastard Serov, of course. He would never survive the scandal of his friendship with a traitor.
But that wasn’t the dangerous part. The real high explosive was Morozov’s final signal. The letter that Vasin had dictated. Who had ordered the submarines to run the blockade? Clearly, military brass unhappy at the prospect of Khrushchev backing down. Which brass? Would they win? Could Orlov bring them down by revealing their plans? And if so, why would he wish to? What would Orlov’s silence be worth to them? Conversely, how much would Khrushchev’s allies trade for his information? Or could he help the hawkish generals bring Khrushchev down?
Orlov’s mind flicked through months and years of conversations, handshakes, whispered confidences, secret memoranda. He’d been playing this game long enough to know that there was no such thing as principles in politics—only a constantly shifting kaleidoscope of individual men, facts, interests, power, information. The latter two, of course, being the same thing. Friends, enemies? These, too, were abstractions. If you played the game right, the powerful were your friends. And the about-to-be powerful were your even better friends.
The traffic was approaching its rush-hour peak on the roundabout that circled the elongated iron figure of Felix Dzerzhinsky on his plinth in the middle of Lubyanka Square. The stern, metal eyes of the Soviet secret police’s founder looked across the sea of red, white, and blue car tops into a Revolutionary future.
A future that was now in Orlov’s hands.
15
KGB Headquarters, Moscow
Monday, 29 October 1962, 07:31 Moscow Time / 00:31 EDT
Orlov’s secretary interrupted his reverie.
“Comrade General? I have Lieutenant Colonel Vasin on the line.”
“Ah. Put him through.”
Orlov put down the files he had been cradling and moved toward the telephone extension nearest to the window. He was mildly surprised. He’d half expected Vasin to try to run. There were ways one could escape from the USSR. A few people every year even managed it. On foot through the Karelian forests to Finland. By boat from some small Estonian fishing port. A long hike through the Hindu Kush. Stowing away on a ship from Leningrad or Odessa. Stamina and luck were all it took. Having a private car and a kontora ID were inestimably useful. Orlov would have put Vasin’s chances at maybe 20 percent. Part of him would even be rooting for the crazy young fool.
Orlov was always expecting people to do stupid things, and they usually did. But Vasin was not stupid. The man would now try to plead for his life. Orlov would be interested to hear how he’d try to do it. But again, he’d give the boy no more than the same 20 percent chance of survival.
On the tenth ring, Orlov finally picked up the phone but said nothing.
“Comrade General?”
Orlov merely tutted in answer. There was a long silence on the line.
“General. I need fifteen minutes of your time. Face-to-face. Neutral ground.”
A reasonable opening move, Orlov had to admit. A dumber man than Vasin would have asked for an hour, even a lone minute—please, sir, I beg you. Or, worse, begun pleading then and there on the phone.
“Fine, Vasin. I agree.”
“Very good. Today at noon? By Iron Felix. In the little park opposite the Polytechnical Museum. Do I have your word that we will be alone?”
Orlov stifled a chuckle.
“Of course.”
The General replaced the receiver in its cradle and turned back to the window to consider the problem of Vasin. His first instinct had been to just bury the insubordinate little fucker. But, Orlov knew, that was simply irritation at being defied. Acting in anger was weak.
Orlov lowered his eyes to the iron statue of Derzhinsky that dominated Lubyanka Square and savored his triumph. For the moment—a sweet, long moment—there was nothing more to do but wait. He held all the cards. If Vasin was right and one of the Navy boys in the Caribbean set off his nuclear firecracker at some American ship, it would be war soon enough. That would be one set of outcomes. If not, then no war. Another set of outcomes. Serov could fall—or Serov and his friends could rise. Either way, the man was firmly on Orlov’s hook. Drown his enemy; save his enemy. The choice would be his. Orlov felt himself unconsciously clenching and unclenching his fists. Power felt good.
Orlov flicked on his intercom and instructed his secretary to keep a close watch on the American news wires for any information about armed confrontation in Cuba. And instructed her to put the word out to his little birds in the Aquarium and General Staff to stay alert for any naval news from the Caribbean. Otherwise, he was not to be disturbed.
The General, with the files with Morozov’s confession cradled in his arms, flopped onto his leather sofa and sank into sleep.
16
Lubyanka Square, Moscow
Monday, 29 October 1962, 12:00 Moscow Time / 05:00 EDT
Orlov rarely walked on Moscow sidewalks. A few yards from his car to the theater, occasionally. But to walk, almost alone, along a deserted city sidewalk was a novelty he hadn’t experienced for years. Two of his bodyguards followed on foot at a discreet distance, of course. And a single car containing two more armed men trailed him. Close enough to being alone. As Orlov entered the newly built underpass from the Lubyanka to the traffic island opposite the Polytechnical Museum, he wondered if Vasin would actually dare to keep him waiting. He was enjoying this. It had been so long since Orlov had gone into an interrogation without knowing exactly what he wanted, or what he would do.
A light drizzle began as Orlov emerged from the underpass. The small park was deserted. The spot was well chosen—for symbolic reasons if nothing else. It was dominated by the illuminated statue of Iron Felix, clad in a drifting halo of misty autumn rain.
The insistent, squeaky quack of a Moskvich’s horn sounded from the opposite side of the traffic island. Oh, that was good. Vasin had pulled up in such a way that Orlov’s own car would have to circle the whole square before following. The General checked left and right for his guards, then approached the car. The passenger-side window was already wound down. Tentatively, as if putting his head in a bear trap, Orlov leaned over and peered inside. Vasin flicked on the interior light against the dimness of the day and held up his hands.
“Comrade General. I’m alone. Unarmed. Come for a ride with me?”
Orlov hesitated. How much smarter than most of his adversaries was Vasin, calculating that Orlov’s vanity and sense of invulnerability would propel him into the car. And by God, the man would be right. Making a slight gesture to his guards to follow in the chase car, Orlov opened the door and got into the tiny Moskvich, his bulk making the vehicle sag on its weak springs. Vasin switched off the light, put the car into gear, and nosed into the empty expanse of Marx Prospekt.
“So, Vasin. You heard the news?”
Orlov half turned in his cramped seat—as much as his muscular bulk would allow—and examined Vasin. The man clearly hadn’t shaved. His car also smelled funky, as though someone had slept in it.
“What news would that be?”
* * *
—
Vasin kept his eyes stubbornly on the light traffic ahead as they passed the Hotel Metropol. It was somehow so much easier to talk to Orlov when he didn’t have to look at him.
“The news about nuclear war. Or rather…the lack of nuclear war. Unless it was somewhere low in the radio bulletin and I missed it. Anyway. It’s over. Your submarine game. Those boats you were so worried about were intercepted by the US Navy yesterday, somewhere in the eastern Caribbean. Intercepted without incident. Turns out the lead boat was commanded by some level-headed fellow. Not one of the Navy’s usual blockhead cowboys. The Captain was a survivor of some reactor accident, they say. He didn’t feel like sending a nuke up the backside of the US Second Fleet. Anyway, our subs surfaced, waved at the Americans in a comradely manner, turned for home. Thank God Almighty.”
“Are you serious? It’s over?”
“It’s over, Sasha. You failed to get your message to the Americans. But it came out okay in the end.”
Vasin felt his hands relax involuntarily on the wheel. In front of him the traffic light at the intersection with Gorky Street turned red and Vasin rolled to an obedient halt in the middle lane, the goon car filling his rearview mirror.
“You got Morozov, I see.”
“We did. No thanks to you.”
“That’s ungracious, sir. You could say I finally flushed the traitor out for you.”
“Ah. ‘The traitor.’ Yes. Good word. Let’s talk about treason.”
Vasin ignored Orlov’s ironic tone.
“And did the traitor Morozov sing?”
“Sasha. You know me. Of course he sang. Like a canary. First dawn after his arrest. Quite an amazing song he sang, too. This time next month he will have sung his way to a bullet in the back of the head.”
“And Sofia? You have her as well?”
Orlov gave a low chuckle.
“Always cherchez la femme with you, eh, Sasha? But no, in fact. I don’t have her. She went to the priest of a different parish to make her confession, as it happens.”
Vasin furrowed his brow in incomprehension, risking a glance at Orlov. The old devil was smirking in self-satisfaction.
“And Tokarev?”
“Same story, I’m afraid. I am reliably informed that our friends in green have arrested him. Court-martial pending. Divulging state secrets, apparently. I’m sure you know more about it than I do. Maybe you’ll tell me all about it one day. Doprygalsya, nash bezruky tovarishch. Our handless comrade has jumped his way into trouble.”
Orlov gave a throaty chuckle. Vasin felt an uncontrollable urge to wipe the smile off the fucker’s face. The traffic light changed to yellow, and Vasin put the car slowly into gear. A postal truck to his right revved slowly and moved off with the rest of the column of traffic. Without warning, Vasin cut the wheel right and swerved behind the truck and across another two lanes to make a hard right turn onto Gorky Street. He left Orlov’s escort car trapped momentarily between streams of moving traffic, beeping furiously.
Vasin accelerated as fast as he could up the hill toward the Central Telegraph Office. Once he was over the crest of the first rise between the Kremlin and Pushkin Square, Vasin braked abruptly and pulled over to the curb without signaling. He slipped into an empty parking space in front of a Kamaz truck and quickly killed the engine. Orlov looked over his shoulder in alarm. A moment later, both saw the Volga containing Orlov’s bodyguards charging past them, oblivious.
Before Orlov could react, Vasin restarted the car and swerved into a side street by the Hotel Tsentralnaya.
“Sorry, General. Precautions.”
Orlov said nothing for a long moment. Vasin could feel the older man’s fury at his sudden, wholly unfamiliar vulnerability. Vasin turned right again at the Institute of Marxist-Leninism and headed back toward Lubyanka Square.
“No problem at all. I’m enjoying the ride.” Orlov’s jollity was obviously forced.
“You promised me fifteen minutes. So I want to tell you a few things. About what I did. And why.”
“If I recall, you already told me why. In so many words. You had a bee in your bonnet about those submarines. Wanted me to call Khrushchev at home, get him out of bed to warn him of deadly danger, if I remember correctly…”
Vasin turned to glare at his chief, almost driving into a traffic light at the bottom of Pushkin Street.
“Whoa there, Sasha.” Orlov gripped the plastic loop above the door to steady himself as Vasin swerved. “Eyes on the road. I’m not mocking you.”
“You called me a traitor. But I’m no traitor, General.”
“Are you not? Are you not? Well. I’m so glad to hear that, Sasha. I’d hate to have been wrong about you when I picked you out for Special Cases. Had you down as a bit of a patriot, if anything. Man of principle. One of the things I never quite trusted about you, to be honest. But, just between friends, would you share with me one thing? How will you explain to the State Prosecutor that you made contact with a suspected Yankee spy, encouraged him to compose a message betraying the deepest operational secrets of the Motherland, and then took that message to the spy’s dead-letter drop and delivered it personally to the Americans for collection? Maybe I have it all wrong, of course.”
Kuznetsky Most brought them back onto Lubyanka Square. The sinister form of the statue under which they’d met a few minutes before was now shrouded in a gathering rainstorm. Another red light loomed ahead. Vasin wondered whether Orlov would bolt if he stopped. He calculated probably not. Orlov enjoyed mind games. Vasin’s only chance of survival was to somehow get his boss to understand why he’d acted as he had. Right now, he was talking for his life.
