In the Company of Spies

by Stephen Barlay

“That’s coming to an end. We can start preparing your future. We’ve got some ideas.”

  “Such as sending me to Cuba?”

  “That’s out. You’re much too valuable to risk.”

  “You mean you’ve never thought about it?”

  “Somebody had that half-baked idea, but it was dismissed right away: It would be crazy. How did you hear about it?”

  “Ell mentioned some gossip.”

  “He shouldn’t have.”

  “He’s my brother.”

  “But not in charge of your case. He shouldn’t have discussed plans with you.”

  “And you’re talking bullshit, Jake.”

  Charles put his hand on Rust’s arm. “Take it easy. You’re talking to friends.”

  “Then talk like friends. That’s what you owe me, if anything.”

  “That’s why I’ve brought in Charles,” said Schramm. “He and I have found a dream of a liaison job for you.”

  “At least until things clear up and you’re ready for a major step up,” Charles chimed in.

  “No thanks.”

  “You can’t rush these things, Helm.”

  “I know. I must be seen to be in disgrace, at least for a while, right?”

  “Is that your idea?”

  “No, but it’s logical.”

  “Did Ell suggest it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Once again, it was not for him to say that, but if he thought about it, he must have come to this conclusion because he’s a pro.”

  “Whereas I’m still an amateur, is that what you mean?” There was an almost imperceptible pause, then both men said, “Yes.” And Charles added, “To tell you the truth.”

  “Good. I’m proud of it.”

  Schramm ordered more drinks, then asked Rust how he saw his future.

  “Right now I have only one idea. I hear that Jus’-juice is out of the hospital. He suffered because of me. It’s only fair that I should look after him until he recovers.”

  “Where? At the Upstairs?”

  “Where else?” Rust thought he saw them exchange glances. “Any objections?”

  “Well … ”

  “Well what? I owe him that much.” He did not want to say that it would be essential for him to stay at the Upstairs for a while. Only there could a message from his father or Yelena reach him. If they needed somewhere to run to. If they wanted to.

  “You’re a great friend, Helm,” said Charles, “we know that, but do you realize the risk?”

  “You must have a lot of enemies,” added Schramm. “The kind that never give up. Their own loyalties and discipline are built on revenge. They might come after you. Have you thought about that?”

  “That should please you. If you watch my back properly, you may even catch them. Those whom Anna’s refused to name and those she’s never known. Like Sapphire.”

  “It’s an idea.”

  “You should have kept quiet, Jake. Your voice was too delighted. But I don’t mind. Because there’s something else. I don’t believe that Anna was the only ace in their pack. She could spy in Ell’s bed and in her job, but she couldn’t have pushed her husband up and up at the speed Ell was advancing. And the tidbits he had from me must have helped, but couldn’t be enough. So there must have been others behind her. And if they go for me, we might find them.”

  “True.”

  “Then I’ll play sitting duck for you on the condition that if anything comes of it and I live, I’ll know the truth.”

  Charles laughed. “I think I can hear the last breath of your amateurism.”

  “Pity. I still don’t want to see life as a game.”

  “Why? Do you see yourself as an idealist?”

  “You both know me better than that. But being skeptical doesn’t mean I can’t trust friends. And despising politics doesn’t mean I can’t be inspired by a young President and his New Frontier men.”

  “Ah! You’ve managed to salvage the old loyalties.”

  “Without them I wouldn’t be human.”

  “Without them you’d be a pro,” said Charles. The laughter had disappeared from his eyes and voice without a trace, like May-morning frost. The way he said “pro” had a long-lingering echo. It kept reverberating in Rust’s ears: if anything, he loathed cold professionalism and the game; if anything, he secretly longed to become a cold professional and a player in the game.

  Sunday, October 14

  Kennedy predicts Castro’s early fall from power. England receives assurance that U.S. will not sanction assaults by Cuban exiles on British or other Havana-bound vessels though it cannot be guaranteed that such incidents will not occur. British court to try Admiralty spy Vassall. Jackie Kennedy’s new wardrobe is predicted to be a “tremendous surprise.”

  *

  EKATERINA FURTSEVA HAD NO INTENTION OF SOOTHING her lover: the radiogram, delivered by special Kremlin messenger, had infuriated Khrushchev, and she thought it served him right. She had warned him about rumors that some of his generals and closest associates were trying to torpedo his game with konfety in Cuba. He should have ordered a full investigation right away. Now it might be too late.

  With the telephone pressed to his right ear, Khrushchev stood at the window of her bedroom, staring down at Granovsky ulitsa, the endless row of waiting black Chaikas and Zils, the Bureau of Passes sign on No. 2, and the curved gray horn, now silent, on the corner. He listened to Biryuzov’s apologetic voice, and wondered if the young missile general was one of those who might have wished to leak his plans to the Americans.

  “We’re almost ready, Nikita Sergeyevich, I can assure you. The delay’s been due only to some limitations of port facilities and the traditional Cuban mañana. We have no way of cutting out at least limited use of local labor.”

  Of course not. Khrushchev knew that only too well. Castro’s pride had to be observed: Cubans had to be seen helping with the construction of the missile sites. Khrushchev cut the general short: “You know there’s been an overflight.”

  “Yes, Nikita Sergeyevich. It was a U-2 aircraft. There could be no mistake.” The implication was clear: Khrushchev himself and the KGB at the highest level had assured Biryuzov that construction work could be carried out without wasting time on any special camouflage or protection from air reconnaissance because the Americans would not want to risk a serious incident and would therefore refrain from missions over western Cuba. So was their information wrong, or had there been a change in American policy?

  The same questions vexed Khrushchev, too. But he went further. If there was a change in policy, what had brought it about? Had somebody succeeded in leaking information? How much information? Would Kennedy be willing to go to war over Cuba after all? If so, would he do it if missiles with nuclear warheads were already operational in Cuba? Or would he still be willing to comply with the Russians’ minimum demand and guarantee noninterference as a reciprocal gesture for the removal of the missiles? It was all a matter of timing, so time had to be gained. “Are the current U-2s any different from the one we shot down?”

  “There’s no essential difference. As easy as the Gary Powers flight was.”

  “And what exactly is our Cuban surface-to-air readiness?”

  “We could shoot them out of the sky at six hours’ notice.”

  “So we could bring one down if there were more overflights.”

  “Yes, Nikita Sergeyevich, we’ll be ready in six hours precisely.”

  “No, we won’t! I didn’t ask you to make policy decisions for me, did I? You just carry on and wait for orders.”

  Khrushchev flung the phone down and missed the cradle. Madame Furtseva picked up the receiver and placed it on the set. “Why is it that every tinpot general believes that he understands politics, and everything else for that matter?”

  “Because few people can argue with them. We’ve given them the right to pull rank on reason.”

  “Some people might say the same o
ne day about politicians, or even the party itself.”

  “What makes you think they don’t? I’m sure they whisper. At least behind our backs.”

  “The way some bastards call me Catherine the Third.”

  “Do they really?” Khrushchev resisted the impulse to laugh, and wondered if her nickname was an understatement. After all, he himself had enough trouble controlling her now and then.

  “It’s dangerous to tolerate such signs of disrespect,” she kept droning. “Nicknames may only be the beginning of more serious breaches of discipline.” She did not need to spell out the threat: he knew about the halfbaked conspiracies to oust him, but unlike Stalin, he chose not to kill his suspected or potential rivals. This new socialist legality was his only hope that they would also let him live if and when they ever succeeded. And he knew that she as well as many others despised him for it — despite their hatred of Stalin’s memory.

  *

  The small, sparsely furnished room was hot, full of cigar smoke, and overcrowded with Schramm and the six Cubans who listened intently to Rust. Two of them were Bay of Pigs survivors, ready to go in and risk their lives again. Operation Mongoose appeared to be a better-prepared, more serious venture, and Rust’s advice on the use of the smuggling routes was well received.

  “Would you come with us on the next hit-and-run raid?” one of the swarthy men asked.

  “It’s not up to me,” Rust said.

  “What if it was?”

  “I doubt if they’d let me.”

  “What if they let you?”

  Rust shrugged his shoulders.

  “Would you take us as far as Cay Sal?”

  Cay Sal. It brought back unpleasant memories of the string of coral dots, so many barren deathtraps, separated from Cuba by the narrow Nicholas Channel. “It’s not up to me.”

  “Helm is here only to brief you,” said Schramm, who had arranged this meeting in Miami because Rust was anxious to help in some way. But Schramm was not at all happy about his involvement. He claimed he would have preferred to keep Rust at the Upstairs under well-organized protection. This was only their third day back in Florida, and they had already had several fights. One because of Hal “Jus’-juice” Sheridan, whose recovery and keep-fit technique involved Rust in endless rum-guzzling and target-shooting sessions. Another two major arguments were triggered by Rust’s insistence on walking around in Little Havana. Rust kept saying that if nobody knew he was back, no Russki hit man would show up, and it made sense, Schramm had to admit, but not without angry reservations. Then there was Rust’s boat, the Half Pint, an irrestible invitation to “proving trips” along the coast allegedly “to check out the engine” that appeared to be as reliable as a new bucket in any case.

  After the briefing session and the subsequent inevitable bar-hopping, they were back now at the Upstairs. Rust and Hal settled down to some serious consumption of golden Bacardi. Hal was pouring more and more generously, and his remarkable recovery was emphasized by his steady hand: he did not spill a single drop even when a scream came through the open window and made Schramm hurl himself at the light switch. “Get down and stay down. Hal stays with you,” he rasped and was gone.

  “Bullshit,” said Rust unemotionally and, glass in hand, followed Schramm through the door.

  At the junction of several flashlight beams, a girl lay on the curved, creaking stairs, her shin, thighs, belly and breasts pressed uncomfortably into the treading edges. A light frock clung to her back, annihilating the possibility of anything remaining hidden between her skin and the floral pattern, but two guards held guns to her head, and a third man seemed to be bent on doing his utmost to discover if she was armed. When Rust appeared at the top of the stairs, it was this third man who shrieked, “Fucking bitch!” because the girl had bitten his dutifully searching hand.

  “You touch me again and I bite your head off!” She yelled with a strong Spanish accent, then looked up and noticed Rust. “Chico!”

  At first he failed to recognize her. Then a sudden tightness in his groin reminded him of that long day in Cuba when he had tried to rest in her bed and live with the advice from Morales: “Don’t let your prick talk when your head knows better what not to do.” She lay there, dressed in the lucky pillow she clutched to her belly — yes, it all came back now.

  He stepped over the bodyguards and helped her to her feet. The dress was ridiculously ill-fitting, much too tight at all the wrong or maybe right places depending on the viewpoint, glued to oily skin probably by a film of sweat. Another dummy lover, thought Rust, savoring his memory of that envied pillow. She stuck her mouth out, expecting to be kissed, but Rust ignored it. Her visit could not be accidental. Morales must have sent her. “You’re late,” he said and noted Schramm’s astonishment.

  “Am I?”

  Rust knew that she was puzzled, but luckily her question sounded merely provocative.

  “You know you are. Come inside.”

  “I have a — ”

  “Kiss for me?” He could not think of anything better for a quick interruption. She smiled. Her offer was still open, and this time, if the pretence was to be continued, it had to be taken up. He kissed her hurriedly.

  “Won’t you introduce me?” Schramm asked.

  “Oh, yes. Sorry. This is Jake.” Rust realized he did not even know her name. He gestured toward her and said the first name that came to his mind. “And this is Sylvia.”

  “Nice to meet you, Sylvia. I’m sure Helm will forgive you for being late.”

  She looked blank and startled, not knowing what to say. Conversation was obviously not her forte, but she sensed tension, chose to snuggle up to Rust, and she knew how to snuggle up to a man. Rust took her hand to lead her into the house, but Schramm stopped him: “Can I just keep you for a second, Helm?”

  “Sure. Go ahead, honey. One of these nice men” — he nodded toward the bodyguards — “will be pleased to offer you a drink.”

  “What’s up?” Schramm asked when the two of them were left alone at the top of the stairs.

  “A date. Any objections?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Do I have to tell you? I didn’t realize you were supposed to guard my morals, too.”

  “You know what I’m talking about. When did you manage to fix up the date? We’ve been together all the time.”

  “Not when you went to the john and left me propping up the bar.”

  “Which bar?”

  “El Paraíso.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Nobody’d expect you to unless each time you piss is a memorable occasion in your life.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I wasn’t laughing.”

  “And you say you managed to pick her up and fix the date before I could give it a final pull.”

  “I didn’t say I picked her up. She’s an old friend.”

  “A lucky coincidence.”

  With Schramm’s suspicion aroused, Rust did not want to talk to her in the house. If what “Sylvia” had for him was a message from Morales, it might be better to receive it in the privacy of the boat. Schramm insisted that they must remain in sight, no more than fifty yards from the jetty.

  “Are you becoming a voyeur in your old age?”

  Schramm ignored his feeble joke. “Fifty yards. And no swimming.”

  Rust stopped the Half Pint some fifty yards out and waved to the men on shore. He switched to his creaky Spanish. “We’d better lie down before you say anything.” She smiled, and he hurried to point out that it was only for the sake of appearances.

  She reached for the hemline of the dress. “Would it help if I took it off?”

  “Not unless you first tied a knot in my prick.”

  She peeled herself up to mid-thigh before he could stop her. “Why, chico! Don’t you like me?”

  “Morales is my friend.” He paused. “If you’re still with him, that is. Are you?”

 
“He’s been very good to me.”

  “And to me.” They lay side by side in the confined space, and the boat rocked to knock their bodies together. “Did he send you?”

  “Yes. Now let me get this right. He said the Buccaneer … no, not Buccaneer … Buchaneer … damn … he said it’s a big town in Roman … ”

  “Roman? Rome?”

  “No. It’s a country.”

  “Rumania?”

  “You’re clever.” She kissed his cheek. “How did you get that scar?”

  “Stick to your message. Big town in Rumania. Bucharest.”

  “That’s it, chico. It’s a tanker. Bucharest is a tanker and it has a tank on board and it’ll be in Cuba in about ten days.”

  “With a tank on board.”

  “Yes. Must be Russian. Only Russian tanks come to Cuba.”

  “Good thinking,” said Rust. There was no need to tell her that it could only be the tank for baby crocodiles and it must contain his father or Yelena or both. “And I’m very grateful for the message. Now how will you get back to Cuba?”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Oh yes you are. Morales expects you back, I’m sure, and you’ll take my message to him.”

  “Tell him yourself. He’s in Miami.”

  “What?”

  “We left five days ago. For good. He was in trouble. As soon as we got here, he tried to find you, but there were too many guards around your house. Then he saw you in a bar.” She kept chattering on but Rust was not listening. The news was a blow. He had always counted on it that if Yelena used the escape route, Morales would arrange her passage from Cuba to Florida. That plan now collapsed. It would be unfair even to try to persuade Morales to return home and risk facing whatever dangers he had escaped from. And Rust knew nobody else he could trust with the task.

  “Tell Morales I want to meet him,” he said.

  “He’s going to be away until the day after tomorrow.”

  “Okay, tell him to be in the john of El Paraíso at, say, four in the afternoon.”

  “In the john?”

  “That’s what I said. He must wait for me in there. And you sit at the bar. I’ll see you there.”

  “Okay.” Her mission completed, she relaxed, closed her eyes and let her mouth open slightly: she had once been told that men liked the shadowy shape of her tongue in the cage of lips and teeth. When nothing happened, she looked up. He was staring out to sea. “Are you tired, chico?” It was a genuine whisper of concern without any trace of resentment.