Death Beam, page 40
“We are about to change the history of Russia,” Strokin announced. He opened the folder on his desk. “I am holding three documents that spell the epitaph of Marshal Safronov. The first”—he held it up—“is a copy of the indictment of Safronov that was originally drawn up by Krylov. It was this document that led directly to Krylov’s assassination by the marshal’s thugs. In it, Krylov exposed how Safronov’s intrigues imperiled state security. In particular, Krylov held the marshal personally accountable for the defection of Colonel Ushinsky to the Americans. I am certain that we all agree that Krylov’s accusations have been amply vindicated by the course of events that led to the destruction of the Razrukha project.”
There was a rumble of agreement from the KGB generals. They were Strokin’s appointees, all of them, although he had suspected at one time that Ryumin had had secret dealings with the marshaj. He was sure he could trust them fully now it was clear which way the wind was blowing.
“This document”—Strokin held up a closely-typed transcript—“is the deposition of one of the army officers who took part in the murder of Krylov. It is incontrovertible proof that Marshal Safronov was personally responsible for the assassination. The officer is being held in the Lubyanka under close guard. I am grateful to General Khlestov, who arranged to make the arrest quietly before dawn this morning.”
“How did you manage to extract a confession?” asked the chief of the Border Guards.
Strokin allowed himself to smile. “We promised him clemency,” he explained. “And we pointed out the possible consequences for his family if he refused to cooperate. He had a pretty young wife and two small children. We allowed him to call his apartment, and one of our men answered the phone. His attitude changed immediately. He was even prepared to call his own office to make his excuses for not appearing there today.”
Strokin replaced the transcript in his file and took out the final document, a single sheet of stiff paper embossed with the Communist Party seal. He handed it to General Ryumin, who scanned its contents quickly and passed it on to the others. The familiar signature at the foot of the page was that of General Secretary Manilov. The document formally expelled Marshal Safronov from the Communist Party of the Soviet Union and authorized his arrest, to face charges of antistate crimes.
‘‘Manilov signed this warrant immediately after the meeting of the Defense Council today,” Strokin continued. “It is up to us to execute the General Secretary’s directive before he loses his nerve.”
General Boiko snickered. The KGB chiefs had little respect for Manilov, who had displayed Hamlet-like powers of indecision at each stage of the Kremlin power struggle.
“Khlestov.” Strokin turned to the commander of the Kremlin Guards. “You will make the arrest. The task of the Border Guards and the Dzherzhinsky Division will be to neutralize any armed resistance by military units in the Moscow region.”
“Where is Safronov now?” Khlestov asked.
“He went from the meeting to the Defense Ministry,” said Strokin. The KGB was kept well informed on the movements of senior military personnel by its own network of agents, especially inside the Main Political Administration of the armed forces, which supplied commissars to all units.
“What if the marshal himself resists arrest?” Khlestov went on.
“He won’t.” It was curious, Strokin thought, how, throughout the long and bloody history of Moscow purges, even the most ruthless and ambitious leaders had gone tamely like lambs to the slaughter once they had been outmaneuvered.
“But if he does?” Khlestov pursued.
“Then shoot him.” Strokin sniffed as if there were a bad smell in the room. Then he said, “Any more questions?”
No one spoke.
“Well then, let’s get on with it.”
The four generals rose to leave.
“Not you, Orlov,” Strokin ordered the man in civilian clothes. “We have something more to discuss.”
The man the Americans called Martini took out a slim red-and-gilt cigarette case and offered Strokin a Winston.
“No thanks,” said the chairman of the KGB. “They’re too mild for me.”
“I got into the habit of smoking Virginia tobacco in the States,” said Martini. “You’re too noticeable there if you insist on black tobacco.”
Alone with the KGB chairman, Martini seemed completely at ease. He strolled about the office, exhaling clouds of smoke, then sat down again in a big leather wingback, his legs nonchalantly crossed.
“Such a waste,” Martini commented. Then he quoted an old Russian proverb. “You shouldn’t spit into the well you may have to drink from later on.”
Strokin grunted approvingly. Then he took a bottle of vodka and two small tumblers from the cupboard behind his desk. It was Strokin’s favorite variety—pepper vodka, flavored with pimientos that gave the liquor more bite and alcoholic effect. Whoever invented pepper vodka probably had the same thing in mind as the Bowery drunks on Manhattan’s Lower East Side who used to be seen sprinkling red pepper into their rotgut gin.
Martini accepted the vodka without comment. Both men drained their glasses, and Strokin refilled them.
“You will have to take up where Krylov left off,” Strokin said to the man who had duped the Americans for more than a decade. “I want you to take charge of the Beacon.”
Martini began, with a show of modesty, to protest his lack of adequate qualifications to run the most secret office at Moscow Center—the one responsible for recruiting and handling Soviet agents inside Western intelligence services. Strokin brushed his protestations aside.
“You’re the man I want,” the KGB chairman told him. “Because you are the man who made possible the most successful operation that Krylov ever planned against the Americans. I wonder if even now the Agency has taken the measure of what we did to it. I am sure that but for that madman Safronov and Ushinsky’s defection, our operation would still be continuing undetected and the intelligence chiefs in Washington would still be debating whether or not the weapon they call Death Beam could really exist. It’s staggering what you and Krylov achieved. For ten years, playing the role of the double agent code-named Martini, you told the Americans what they wanted to believe—that the United States was superior to the Soviet Union in military technology, that the Agency was running a top-level agent inside Moscow Center. The longer the operation went on, the more the Americans had to believe. Because of the incredible loss of bureaucratic and individual self-esteem that would have been involved in re-evaluating all the intelligence estimates and operations that they based on the deception that we were feeding them. Oh yes”—Strokin interrupted himself to replenish their glasses—“I understood what Krylov was doing. I understood the mission of the Beacon. We must never lose sight of it. Remember what Dzherzhinsky said? That we have to penetrate deeper and deeper into the enemy’s plans? There is the key to it all. To be able to deceive the enemy to the point where we not only shape his view of the world but actually control his decisions. We did that, didn’t we, Orlov? How amazing that it took the Americans so long to understand. Will they ever recover from Martini?”
“They won’t forget him,” said the man whose klichka was Martini. “And they won’t forget the agents they lost because of Martini, now that they finally understand what happened. They won’t forget Hussar.”
“I wonder,” Strokin mused aloud. “There weren’t many men who have the imagination, the -concentration span, the memory to grasp how these things work. And such men do not appear to be appreciated in Washington. Look what happened to Max Zimmer before we had him killed.”
“Look what happened to Krylov,” Martini observed mildly.
“It’s not comparable,” Strokin said testily. “We’ve been undergoing a palace revolution since Brezhnev died. Krylov was one of the victims. By contrast, Max Zimmer’s demise was the consequence of the Americans’ failure to understand how we operate. All right.” He reverted to his main theme.
“The resources of the Beacon are now at your disposal. Including Max Zimmer’s personal files.”
Martini cocked an eyebrow.
“Oh yes.” Strokin confirmed. “We succeeded when the Agency failed. We’ve got Zimmer’s memory. Well,” he went on, “where do you want to begin?”
“With the loose ends that Krylov’s death left trailing in Washington. Where is Malinovsky?”
“On a freighter, heading from San Francisco to Hong Kong.” Strokin explained that the antiquarian-bookseller who had served as the contact man for Trudy Cook after Martini’s recall to Moscow had been ordered to go to ground as soon as the Agency’s investigation had begun to home in on the real mole. “Malinovsky is as remarkable, in his way, as you are,” the KGB chairman said to Martini. “He seems to have as many lives as a cat. He always lands on his feet. I think it’s partly because he enjoys it so much. He loves the adventure.”
“What about Trudy Cook?”
“Oh yes. The girl. Perhaps I should say your girl.” The KGB chief was fully briefed on how Martini had seduced the spinster from the Reports section of the Agency’s Soviet Division. “We did not consult you,” Strokin said bluntly, “because you might have been less then entirely objective. Also”—he waved his Russian cigarette at the chairs where the other KGB generals had been sitting—“you will appreciate that we have been quite preoccupied here at headquarters.”
Martini showed no external sign of emotion. But he walked to the window and looked down for a moment through the bulletproof glass into the drab expanse of Dzherzhinsky Square. There were hundreds of soldiers milling about in the street. But they were the KGB’s troops—men of the Dzherzhinsky Motorized Division—not Marshal Safronov’s.
“We thought of trying to get her out,” Strokin went on, “when we learned that her superior, Lester Winter, was under interrogation. At that point, Malinovsky reported that suspicion was inevitably bound to fall on Miss Cook. And on Malinovsky himself. ’ ’
“So?” Martini rounded on his chief. “So why didn’t you get her out?”
Strokin understood the thrust of the question, beyond Martini’s personal concern for a female agent he had recruited by the oldest means in the world—sexual entrapment. The KGB had gone to considerable lengths in other situations, as in the case of the Philby spy ring in Britain, to help agents who had come under suspicion to escape from the Western authorities. This was deemed essential in order to reassure Soviet operatives all over the world that their safety was highly prized by Moscow Center, and that they would not be abandoned in time of trouble.
“There was an element of confusion with Krylov gone,” Strokin apologized. “There was also a feeling in some quarters that it might actually be helpful if Miss Cook was arrested and subject to a public trial. That would demoralize the Agency and weaken public confidence in it. The information she can give the Americans now is stale. With Krylov and Max Zimmer both dead, and with Martini exposed, we have moved into a completely new situation.”
“You were prepared to have Max Zimmer murdered in order to protect Trudy Cook’s identity,” Martini countered. “And yet you were not prepared to help her get away. There seems a certain . . . disproportion.”
“Perhaps.” Strokin chose to sound accommodating. “But remember that we were still also trying to prevent the Americans from believing in the reality of Project Razrukha. There was a lot more than Trudy Cook at stake.”
“You said something about it being helpful if she is brought to trial. What does that mean?”
“It means that a public inquisition could seriously embarrass the Agency at the moment when it is trying to—how do they say it in American?—get their act together.” The KGB chief said the last phrase in English, in an atrocious parody of a Texas accent.
“There’s one more thing,” said Martini.
“Yes?”
“About Malinovsky. He was not only the control for Trudy Cook. He was also the control for the assassin who killed Max Zimmer. That was a mistake. We should have used separate channels.”
“You may be right,” Strokin conceded. “But I assume that Krylov knew what he was doing.” He paused, considering whether to go further. “You may as well know,” he added decisively. “We borrowed the executive agent—the assassin—from the military side. He is a Palestinian. He was available, competent. And I suppose that Krylov calculated that if something went wrong, our tracks could be more easily covered that way.”
“What happened to him? The Palestinian, I mean?”
“He’s still in place. Marshal Safronov had further uses for him.” Strokin hesitated again. He had only just discovered through Malinovsky the ultimate assignment that Marshal Safronov had entrusted to Sammy Hamad. The Palestinian had been ordered to prepare the assassination of the President of the United States. The marshal apparently believed that this would cripple the Americans’ ability to retaliate to a Soviet first strike. The assassination was to be timed to coincide with an attack.
“Is it wise to leave the Palestinian in place?” Martini challenged Strokin. “I mean, shouldn’t we recall the man? The Americans are bound to catch up with him in the end.”
“Give it time,” the KGB chairman cautioned. “We have to deal with some unfinished business in Moscow first. Why don’t you take this.” Strokin gave Martini Krylov’s draft indictment of Marshal Safronov. “See what you can add to it.” His tone implied that the discussion was over.
Martini rose to leave, but, on an impulse, Strokin stopped him.
“The girl,” Strokin said. “Trudy Cook. You didn’t feel anything for her, did you?”
Martini revisited in his mind his evenings with Trudy. The remarkable energy the little roly-poly woman had displayed in bed, grinding her pelvis like no Russian woman he had ever slept with. And he thought of a child, a boy who had been named after Lester Frobisher Winter, but had black hair and high cheekbones. Like Martini.
“No,” he replied. “It was just part of the job.”
General Vadim Khlestov of the Kremlin Guards did not find Marshal Safronov in his office at the Defense Ministry. A nervous woman, a junior secretary, was the only person on duty there apart from the guards. Whatever loyalty she felt for the Defense Minister wilted under Khlestov’s glare. She knew
what this man with bristling eyebrows represented. The chief of the Kremlin Guards not only represented the power of the secret police; he embodied the will of the Party leadership. She also noticed that unlike army generals on staff assignment in Moscow, General Khlestov was wearing a pistol at his hip.
“The marshal has gone to the Bunker,” she told him.
A reserved, taciturn man, Khlestov revealed an unsuspected richness of vocabulary when he started to swear. He started swearing now, indifferent to the sensitivities of the junior secretary, who listened in wonderment as he suggested various ways in which Marshal Safronov’s mother should be sodomized by certain farmyard animals.
The Bunker—in effect, the largest of many such boltholes— was the underground headquarters of the Defense Ministry, a buried city, with buildings up to four stories high, capable of housing some fifteen thousand key officials. Located ten miles east of Moscow, the Bunker was the command center where the marshal and his staff would take refuge in the event of a nuclear war. Similar underground facilities existed for the Politburo and other government ministries. Over the years, the Soviet Union had made a colossal investment in civil defense, to the extent of stockpiling grain, even in years of bad harvests and international embargoes, in buried silos three times the size of a football field, protected by reinforced surfaces like those that were used to defend missile launchers.
Khlestov used one of the phones on Marshal Safronov’s desk to call Strokin.
“The wild boar has gone to its cave,” said Khlestov. “And you thought the marshal wouldn’t resist.”
Strokin rapidly assessed the possibilities. One dominated-all the rest. It was that Marshal Safronov, alerted to his own peril, had decided to disregard the decision of the Defense Council and launch a nuclear attack on the United States on his own authority, calculating that in the ensuing chaos, it would not be difficult for him to dispose of his enemies in the Kremlin. Fortunately, thought Strokin, the Soviet Union was not a banana dictatorship. A carefully structured system of checks and balances had been devised by the Party and the KGB to prevent the military from running amok. Under standing orders, military commanders were not permitted to carry out instructions that were not approved by the commissars appointed by the Main Political Administration of the armed forces. These commissars answered to the Party and the KGB, not to Marshal Safronov.
“Your orders stand,’’ Strokin said to General Khlestov. “Go after the marshal. And do it fast.’’
For his part, the KGB chairman got his secretary to track down the deputy chief of. the Main Political Administration. His superior, curiously, was nowhere to be found. Strokin’s instructions were crisp. Any orders coming from Marshal Safronov were to be disregarded. The marshal had been dismissed from his post and was a wanted criminal.
Next, Strokin called General Secretary Manilov. The man sounded edgy. He wanted to know why the marshal had not already been placed under arrest. Strokin fudged his answers, fearful that the timorous General Secretary might do an about-face and rescind his own orders.
Only then did the KGB chief return to his bottle of pepper vodka, and a list of Marshal Safronov’s closest military associates that he had had drawn up by the Third Chief Directorate.
