A Patriot in Berlin

by Piers Paul Read

  In 1980, Orlov was transferred to Department 9, and after two years on the Africa desk went with his wife Tatiana to the KGB residence in the Soviet Embassy at Dar es Salaam. Again, a creditable performance: an up-and-coming civil servant in the President’s office recruited as agent of influence in his first twelve months. Reports from the residence chief and from the Africa desk in Moscow all praised Orlov to the skies. It was decided that Orlov was wasted on the Africans. He was recalled to Moscow, and after a year on the US desk, Andrei Orlov was sent to Washington under the cover of a cultural attaché in the Soviet Embassy.

  The telephone rang on Gerasimov’s desk. Kirsch was waiting for him in Savchenko’s office. Gerasimov swallowed the cold dregs of his coffee and closed the file. He went up the stairs with the dread feeling in his stomach of a student about to be examined on a subject he has not prepared. He should know more about Kirsch beyond the fact that he had served for a number of years in the Washington residence and was presumably a Jew.

  Kirsch was sitting on a chair by a coffee table in the corner of Savchenko’s office smoking a cigarette. He was small, dark, with sparse black hair: age, Gerasimov estimated, late fifties or early sixties. He was trim, even dapper, in well-cut Western clothes. As Gerasimov entered, a girl brought in a glass of tea and a plate of biscuits on a small metal tray. She put it down beside Kirsch. Nothing was offered to Gerasimov. Nor did Kirsch get up off his seat.

  ‘You want to know about Orlov?’ he asked as Gerasimov sat down on the empty sofa.

  ‘If you could give me some background …’

  ‘I understand that he has disappeared?’

  ‘We have not been able to trace him since he flew from Kiev to Vienna over a year ago.’

  Kirsch nodded and sipped his tea.

  ‘There has been no sign of him in the United States?’

  Kirsch sniffed, derisively. ‘If Orlov is up to something, he is unlikely to leave his calling card at Russian embassies around the world.’

  ‘We do not know that he is up to something …’

  Kirsch looked at his watch. ‘I am unable to help you in your principal task – that of finding Andrei Orlov. But if you think it would help, I can tell you something about Orlov’s tour of duty in Washington.’

  ‘He went there, I believe, in 1988?’

  ‘Yes. In ’88 or early ’89. He came with his wife, Tatiana, and their young son. They were both an immediate success. They were young and good looking. They became a popular couple on the political and diplomatic circuit. We paid for elegant clothes and subscriptions to country clubs. Both played tennis. Orlov was good at squash. We instructed Tatiana to befriend the women. She joined a reading group organized by a Congressman’s wife. She became interested in art, took up sculpture and went to classes once a week. We encouraged them both to present a soft image. They could even be apologetic, if they thought it appropriate, about our involvement in Afghanistan or our record on human rights.’

  ‘That must have gone against the grain …’

  ‘For Orlov? Yes. But what you should understand is that he is a man who is unusually adept at concealing his true feelings.’ Kirsch took another sip of his tea. ‘He could enter into American life with great gusto while at the same time …’

  Gerasimov waited.

  Kirsch put down his glass. ‘He gave the Americans the impression that he loved them while I have yet to find anyone who held them in greater contempt.’

  Gerasimov took out a notebook and wrote: ‘Master of duplicity.’

  ‘Of course, we were all as it were … adversarial in our approach. We were still fighting the Cold War. But there were very few of us who had such a visceral dislike of the Americans and the American way of life.’

  ‘Do we know why?’ asked Gerasimov. He was genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why he hated the Americans so much?’

  Kirsch shrugged. ‘He was hardly trained to love them. We were all Leninists, after all. The Americans were capitalists, imperialists, exploiters.’ Kirsch took out a packet of Marlboro cigarettes. ‘But Orlov also saw a cultural dimension … You must understand that culturally Orlov was a cut above most of our officers, a result, no doubt, of being the son of a painter.’ Kirsch removed a cigarette from the packet. He did not offer one to Gerasimov. ‘He had a particular loathing for abstract art – the icons of emptiness, he would call them – and for the great art galleries where these icons were venerated.’

  ‘Yet his wife studied sculpture.’

  Kirsch lit his cigarette. ‘Yes. That was to become a problem.’

  Gerasimov waited for Kirsch to expand on this but he went off at a tangent.

  ‘Orlov was good at his job. It was the time of President Reagan’s Star Wars. The Americans’ defence technology was outstripping ours. Moscow told us to get hold of the microchips and computer components that might help us keep up. The pressure was intense. We were reminded that the atomic secrets from Los Alamos had reached the Kremlin within the week. Orlov, through offshore trusts and secret bank accounts, set up bogus companies in the US to get hold of what we wanted and smuggled them out of the country in the baggage of Sandinista sympathizers flying to Nicaragua.’

  ‘If he did so well,’ said Gerasimov, ‘why was he recalled?’

  Kirsch sighed. ‘There were two problems. First, his wife. You realize that she was Keminski’s daughter? That was a great embarrassment to us in Washington because she began to get serious about her art, and then about religion. Psychologically … well, I think she was upset when Orlov on a couple of occasions found himself in a position where he could obtain important information by entering into intimate relationships with certain American women … You understand what I mean. He was acting under orders. It goes with the job. And Tatiana Orlova must have known that, but when she lost faith in our system she no longer saw the necessity, and so they became estranged. We knew what was going on from Orlov. But I think he loved his wife, and took it personally …’

  ‘Was he recalled because of that?’

  ‘Orlov had one failing. He could be arrogant, and that not only irritated some of the other officers at the Residence who were envious of his success; it also made him enemies in Moscow. On his own initiative, he started writing position papers and sending them back to Keminski who passed them on to the Central Committee. They were highly critical of Soviet policy since the war. In his view, this had exaggerated the military threat posed to the Soviet Union when it was the cultural imperialism of the US that posed the greatest danger to the long-term viability of the Soviet system.’

  ‘Was he wrong?’

  ‘Probably not. But our military-industrial complex had its patrons on the Central Committee, and this was not what they wanted to hear.’

  ‘But with Keminski behind him …’

  ‘Keminski’s position was made awkward by the conversion of his daughter. Her religiosity was no cover. She had ceased to submit reports.’ Kirsch stubbed out his cigarette. ‘But that was not the reason for Orlov’s recall. As I understand it, these position papers came to the notice of Khrulev just as he was recruiting a team for his icon operation. It was Khrulev who had Orlov recalled.’

  Gerasimov doodled on his notebook. What more could he ask Kirsch? ‘Could you hazard a guess,’ he asked, ‘as to what Orlov might be up to now?’

  Kirsch shook his head. ‘No. In my view, it was a great mistake to have dismissed him. I know that attitudes are changing, but a man like Orlov should be kept busy if only to prevent him from getting up to anything else.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might know where he is?’

  ‘Yes. His father-in-law, Ivan Keminski.’

  ‘He has been placed out of bounds.’

  ‘And would not tell you what you wanted to know. What about Tatiana?’

  ‘They are separated.’

  ‘Even so. They have a son.’

  ‘If Keminski will not talk, why should she?’

  ‘K
eminski remains a Communist, but if Tatiana is a believer she should sympathize with the reforms. And try the old father. Andrei was fond of his parents. For all his Bolshevik zeal, he was always a family man.’

  A bored looking secretary showed Nikolai Gerasimov to the office at the Tretyakov Gallery of former KGB Lieutenant Alexander Partovsky. He was young – much younger than Gerasimov had expected – with a shy manner and an intelligent expression. Gerasimov found this disconcerting. It was bad enough to be investigating a fellow officer, but worse to be asking someone to sneak on his last operational commander. He could see that Partovsky was ill at ease – not afraid, as so many were when being questioned by state security, but rather embarrassed, as if the whole exercise was somehow squalid.

  ‘I have been asked to make enquiries about Captain Andrei Orlov.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You knew him well, I think?’

  ‘I was with him in Berlin.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘We recovered more than ninety illegally exported icons.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  Partovsky nodded towards the door of his office. ‘Some of them are now on show.’

  ‘The operation was successful, then?’

  ‘Yes, thanks to Comrade Orlov.’

  ‘He was competent?’

  ‘More than that.’

  ‘But it was messy …’

  ‘How?’

  ‘People were killed.’

  ‘We were expected. It was kill or be killed.’

  ‘What about the woman?’

  Partovsky blushed. ‘She had information …’

  ‘About bank accounts?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She told you?’

  ‘In the end.’

  ‘You persuaded her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You tortured her?’

  ‘I …’ He stopped. ‘Our orders were to use whatever means were necessary.’

  Gerasimov made no reply to this but looked down at his notes. ‘And then you returned with the icons?’

  ‘By Travemünde. Yes.’

  ‘With all the icons?’

  There was a slight hesitation. ‘All the icons, yes.’

  ‘And the bank accounts?’

  ‘They were left to Orlov.’

  ‘Did she tell you how much they contained?’

  ‘I was not present at her interrogation.’

  ‘Who was there?’

  ‘Comrade Orlov and Comrade Kastiev.’

  ‘The Chechen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did Orlov tell you how much money the bank accounts contained?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There is no record that any of these funds were repatriated.’

  Again, a slight hesitation. ‘Perhaps Comrade Orlov failed to gain access to the accounts.’

  ‘He flew to Zürich?’

  ‘So I believe.’

  ‘And then returned to Moscow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you see him in Moscow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he tell you whether or not he had gained access to the accounts?’

  ‘No. We did not talk about it.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Our future. The country. The Party. Things had happened while we were away.’

  ‘He too was offered a job at the Tretyakov, I believe?’

  ‘They were grateful to us for recovering the icons.’

  ‘But Orlov turned it down?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Partovsky shrugged. ‘It didn’t appeal to him.’

  ‘It suggests that he had something else in mind.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Did he tell you what that was?’

  ‘Not specifically.’

  ‘In general?’

  Partovsky struggled to find the right words. ‘He is …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A patriot.’

  Gerasimov sniffed. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘He was more concerned for Russia than he was for himself.’

  ‘One can afford to be patriotic with access to bank accounts in Zürich.’

  Partovsky looked angry. ‘It is inconceivable to me, comrade, that Captain Orlov would have spent state funds on himself.’

  ‘Then how does he live?’

  ‘I don’t know. He may have savings.’

  ‘Despite inflation?’

  ‘His father, as you know …’

  ‘Yes, I know. The famous painter.’

  ‘He must have money.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘And the …’ Partovsky hesitated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘As I understand it, Orlov had friends in the Party.’

  ‘Did you know that he had gone back to the West?’

  ‘I assumed he would.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There was some unfinished business.’

  ‘To do with the icons?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The bank accounts?’

  ‘Possibly. I don’t know. He didn’t confide in me. He merely asked me …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To go with him.’

  Gerasimov became alert. ‘He asked you to go with him, to settle some unfinished business, but did not tell you what that business was?’

  Partovsky looked unhappy. ‘It was understood that I could only be told if I was committed to the general idea …’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of saving Russia.’

  Gerasimov was genuinely confused. ‘So Orlov went back to the West to save Russia?’

  ‘He had some project …’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. But the icons … the operation … torturing the woman … It affected him.’

  ‘You said that it had nothing to do with the icons.’

  ‘Nothing as such. But the icons were smuggled out of Russia and sold to the West by slime like Maslyukov and even corrupt Chekists’ – here Partovsky darted a look at Gerasimov – ‘and the way the police in the West knew all about it and did nothing to stop it because the icons were Russian, part of our heritage, our culture … To see them traded as commodities, just to decorate the houses of the bourgeoisie in Frankfurt and New York …’ Partovsky was agitated. ‘You must understand, comrade Gerasimov, that Captain Orlov was not only efficient and courageous but he also had great conviction. He believed in what he was doing.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I obeyed orders.’

  ‘And when you returned?’

  ‘As you know, I was dismissed from the service and was advised to take this post at the gallery.’

  ‘And you would like to keep it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Which you would not if it was felt that you were concealing information to the detriment of the state.’

  ‘I have told you all I know,’ said Partovsky glumly.

  ‘Why should we believe that?’

  Now a slight look of contempt came into Partovsky’s eyes. ‘You are still in the service, comrade Gerasimov. I am not. Nor is Orlov. But we have all had the same training. If you were Orlov, if you had something in mind, would you let out any information to someone who was not part of the operation?’

  Gerasimov did not answer.

  ‘If I had agreed to join him, Orlov would have told me. But I did not.’

  Gerasimov saw the sense of what Partovsky was saying. He changed the subject. ‘General Khrulev, I think, had his own agents in Germany?’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘Did any of them help you recover the icons?’

  Again, a slight hesitation. ‘There were two cars and a van. I am not sure how Orlov got hold of them.’

  ‘No Germans were with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Only …’ Gerasimov looked down at his notes. ‘You and the Chechen?’

  ‘Yes.’
/>
  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘To Kastiev? I don’t know.’

  ‘And the van?’

  Partovsky shrugged. ‘The van? I don’t know. It was picked up by someone from the Centre and returned to the pool.’

  Gerasimov stood up. As he did so, he noticed a look of relief come onto Partovsky’s face. Undoubtedly, he had revealed only as much as he felt he had to about Orlov – things he judged that Gerasimov might discover from other sources. Almost certainly he knew more, or at any rate could hazard a guess.

  ‘You must look at the icons,’ said Partovsky, leading Gerasimov down the corridor towards the gallery. ‘This is the cream of the Tretyakov collection, and the gallery as you know has been recently restored.’

  ‘By Finns, I believe.’

  ‘Superb, don’t you think? And our security is state-of-the-art …’ As he spoke, there was a loud electronic bleep.

  They came into the gallery. There, on the walls, were a series of magnificent icons – of Christ, of the Virgin, of St Nicholas, of St Parascevi, among them the celebrated icon of Our Lady of Kazan, and Andrei Rublev’s Holy Trinity. A number of visitors were shuffling from painting to painting, watched by lethargic attendants. The only sounds were the hum of the humidifiers and the occasional loud electronic bleep.

  ‘What’s wrong with the alarm?’ asked Gerasimov, more interested in the Western technology than he was in the icons.

  ‘As you can see,’ said Partovsky proudly, ‘there is an electronic beam in front of the exhibits which when broken triggers the alarm …’ There was another bleep. Partovsky looked towards the icon of the Virgin of Kazan. ‘But look …’

  Gerasimov turned. An old peasant woman wearing felt boots and a tight headscarf had knelt down and now bowed forward to kiss the icon, blocking the beam. There was a loud bleep. The attendant yawned.

  ‘Why don’t you stop them?’ asked Gerasimov.

  Partovsky shrugged. ‘The equipment is state-of-the-art,’ he said, ‘but our people, I am afraid, are not.’

  FIVE

  At the request of the Minister, Stefan Diederich, a flat was found for Francesca McDermott by the Prussian Ministry of Culture in the Hansa Quarter of West Berlin. It was on the fourth floor of a modern block near the Academy of Art with views over the Englischergarten. Francesca was told that her Russian colleague, Dr Serotkin, would be given an apartment in the same block when he returned to Berlin.