The Washington Sanction

by Mark Arundel

  The Russian military attaché avoided routine of any kind. The weakness for the steak, however, brought him to the club regularly. It was here they would pull him.

  The Chevrolet Impala still had good visual contact, three cars and a meat wagon back in the second lane.

  ‘We’re turning off Park Avenue. He’s definitely heading for the club. ETA six minutes,’ said the radio voice, still crackling but understandable.

  Greene had studied the files and then the detailed individual records in great depth before finally making his choice. The Russian military attaché stationed at the Soviet embassy in Ottawa was the best candidate. It was certain all intelligence operations for North America went through Ottawa, so he was unquestionably Russian Intelligence, and at a high level. He was also currently residing in New York at the consulate, supposedly on some sort of diplomatic business. Greene would be able to get hold of him and then find out whether he knew or not. His name was Leonid.

  There were many types of pull and all of them worked provided you chose the right one and you carried it out professionally.

  Removing somebody forcibly was never straight forward, and this was going to be harder than most. Leonid was a senior Russian and he would have protection.

  It took a couple of weeks, but when Greene received the intelligence about the club restaurant, he had his location.

  After carrying out a personal recognisance, it was an easy choice to make. The club had underground parking, which cars accessed by a ramp straight off the street. The ramp was single lane, entry only, with an exit ramp further along the street.

  Towards the bottom of the fifteen-degree slope, just before it flattened out into the parking area, there was a recess, which housed the entrance to a maintenance room. It was just wide enough to park one car. This was perfect for what he had in mind.

  Smithy pulled off the street and drove down the ramp. He pushed the button, the barrier lifted and they went through. He stopped at the bottom and carefully reversed the Oldsmobile into the narrow recess.

  ‘In position,’ said Smithy into the radio, informing his two colleagues in the Chevy Impala.

  ‘Roger that. Still, have visual. ETA three minutes,’ said the radio voice with the crackle less pronounced this time.

  Greene glanced at Smithy.

  ‘I wouldn’t have picked you if I’d known you were still limping like a cripple. Let’s hope there’s no running involved,’ he said with a mean scowl. Smithy didn’t look at him. He ignored the taunt.

  Greene put his hand inside his lightweight sports jacket and took his gun from its leather holster. It was a Colt Python with a four-inch barrel, which he had been using since its introduction seven years earlier in 1955.

  He found the six shot, swing-out cylinder revolver a very accurate gun. He liked the heavy weight and the removable sight blade, which was screw adjustable for elevation. The safety was Colt’s patented transfer bar and cylinder stop which he now released before replacing the revolver back into its holster.

  Smithy did the same with his gun; it was the exact same model. He disliked the man sitting next to him. Shetland Greene was a cruel man who, most agreed, enjoyed inflicting pain. Nobody liked working with him. He could be dangerous and unpredictable. Disappearing, as he had done earlier, was typical of him. Smithy had worked with him before. Each time had been unpleasant. When Smithy discovered Greene had chosen him for this assignment, he wasn’t happy about it. Apart from everything else, Greene was a terrible dresser. Today he was wearing a badly cut, offensively coloured, checked sports jacket. It made him look like a second-rate sports pundit.

  Smithy lifted the radio receiver and clicked the voice button.

  ‘Make certain you radio us as they turn in and keep right in behind them, and don’t forget, whatever else we do, we must take the target alive. Confirm his seating position,’ he said clearly to the other two men in the Chevy. Smithy and Greene had worked with them both before. They were capable, experienced men who Smithy trusted; at least that was something.

  ‘Confirmation, the target is seated rear behind the driver. He’s wearing a hat; looks like a fedora,’ said the radio voice straight back.

  They sat in silence for the next three minutes. The click of the radio made them both look.

  ‘Turning in…turning in. It’s a go,’ said the urgent voice, crackling loudly.

  ‘Pull out slowly,’ Greene said, and Smithy released the brake pedal allowing the Oldsmobile to roll out across the ramp and block the way.

  Leonid had taken this drive frequently during the past four months. Both he and his bodyguard were unaware of any danger, and neither suspected an ambush.

  Their shiny Ford Thunderbird turned off the street and dipped onto the ramp, slowing to allow the barrier to rise. The driver pulled forward and then saw the Oldsmobile blocking his route. Behind, the Chevy Impala turned off the street onto the ramp, drove under the barrier and then stopped tight behind the Ford.

  For a few moments, nothing happened, the cars remained stationary and all the men remained seated. No one spoke.

  The Russian consulate driver of the Ford Thunderbird glanced in his rear-view mirror and then looked back at the dirty Oldsmobile blocking his way. He leant heavily on the horn. The shrill noise was amplified inside the confines of the low, ramped entrance. The driver gestured with his hands in annoyance.

  Greene and Smithy stepped out of their vehicle and both moved quickly into position. At the same time, the other two men got out of the Chevy and moved into position behind the Ford T-bird.

  The Russian bodyguard sitting in the back beside Leonid realised what was happening, but he was too late. He went for his gun, a P-64 pistol made in Poland under Russian licence; a compact and lightweight replacement for the Tokarev TT pistol which had served the Red Army well for three decades. It weighed just 635g was double action and held six rounds. None of which mattered. The Russian never got the chance to use it.

  All four Americans pulled their weapons quickly and simultaneously. They moved forward. Smithy opened the rear door and leant in, gun first. The Russian bodyguard went for his pistol but he was too slow. Smithy poked the barrel of his pistol painfully into the Russian’s unhappy face and spoke forcefully to him in his own language. The bodyguard sat passively whilst the American pulled the gun from his hand.

  Greene moved to the other rear door and pulled it open. In his shock, Leonid had not gone for the gun he was carrying. Greene swung his hand using the butt of his Colt Python and connected heavily with Leonid’s jaw. The Russian slumped in his seat before Greene cuffed and dragged him out. His fedora had fallen off. One of the other Americans dealt with the driver, who sat obediently staring at the gun pointed inches from his big nose.

  It took less than two. The Americans drove away leaving the bodyguard and the driver minus the ignition key and their pride. Leonid was securely restrained, gagged and hooded. Smithy drove up the exit ramp and out into the bright Manhattan sunlight.

  ‘You did okay, despite your busted leg,’ said Greene, sneering with derision. Again, Smithy ignored him. Greene had an ugly grimace on his face. The adrenalin had made him excited.

  They drove south-west into the village and to a safe house, which was prepared and waiting. They parked at the rear. Greene and Smithy took Leonid inside and the other two agents remained outside in the parked car.

  The house had two underground rooms; both soundproofed and designed for a specific purpose.

  The first room was only twelve feet by ten feet by seven feet. The floor was cold concrete, the walls cold blocks. It was windowless and without furniture. The door construction was cold riveted steel and it had a bolt on the outside. The floor and walls were damp and the darkness and silence unnerving.

  They stripped Leonid naked, roughly cutting away his clothes and the blade nicked him twice. The blood was dark against his white skin. They pushed him into the room, still hooded and cuffed. He heard the door bang shut behind him and the bolt slid
e across.

  Greene and Smithy went upstairs to wait. They drank coffee and played cards. Greene tried to cheat. After four hours, Greene’s patience ran out.

  ‘Let’s start,’ he said.

  Leonid wasn’t sure how long he had been in the room. His mind had started to drift and his body shook with the psychological distress. He didn’t have enough mental strength or physical stamina to withstand relentless torment. He was now aged in his early fifties and he was scared.

  Greene and Smithy pulled him out and took him into the second room. It was bigger than the first, painted white with a central wooden chair lit by four corner spotlights.

  Leonid remained cuffed and hooded. The cuts to his body were stinging and they throbbed, and so did his jaw where Greene’s gun had struck him.

  Greene pushed him back onto the chair and Smithy fixed the straps to his legs and around his chest and pulled them tight. Smithy retreated from the intense brightness of the four spotlights. The limp was a memento from the Korean War. A rifle bullet had injured his hamstring and left the muscle unable to fully extend. There was no pain, just a limp to his step. He stopped beside the floor-standing movie camera and pointing it at Leonid. Greene stretched up and moved the boom held microphone so it was directly over Leonid’s head.

  The two men pulled on their black ski masks and removed their wristwatches and rings.

  Greene pulled the hood from Leonid’s head. The Russian, blinking into the spotlights, looked frightened. His gaunt face was ashen and he looked older than his years. His naked body shivered. He focused and saw two men wearing black masks standing in the shadow at the edge of the room. Leonid’s head fell into despair and resignation.

  He knew from his own experience that the likely outcome would be his own death. Whether he talked before nobody could yet tell. Either way, he knew. He lifted his head. They were wearing masks; maybe what he knew could save him. Maybe they wouldn’t kill him.

  Greene walked into the light.

  ‘Are you going to talk or do we have to hurt you?’ he said in a plain, conversational voice.

  Leonid replied by speaking Russian. Greene sighed and slapped him, backhanded in the mouth.

  ‘Don’t you think I know you speak English?’ he said.

  Leonid tasted the blood on his lip.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.

  ‘Russian Intelligence always knows what we’re planning,’ said Greene. He paused. ‘How?’

  ‘It is a game,’ answered Leonid. ‘Sometimes you win, sometimes we win.’

  Greene liked that answer. An ugly grin parted his thin lips.

  ‘Cuba has got Capitol Hill steaming. I have to know,’ he said calmly.

  Bravely, Leonid lowered his head in refusal.

  ‘Tell me and I will let you live,’ Greene said in a low, honest voice.

  ‘I cannot,’ said Leonid.

  ‘How much pain do you think you can take?’ Greene said.

  Smithy stepped forward into the light and handed something to Greene. Greene held it up for the Russian to see.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’ he said.

  Leonid looked but didn’t answer.

  ‘It’s an electric animal prod,’ Greene told him. ‘Are you going to make me use it?’

  Leonid didn’t reply. He felt sick.

  ‘It will hurt. Perhaps you don’t know just how much?’

  Greene switched it on and stepped forward. He pushed it onto Leonid’s ribs. The Russian screamed. Greene held it against him for three seconds.

  The electric shock made Leonid’s whole body convulse. It sent an evil, jarring pain through his nervous system. He struggled to inhale, saliva ran from his mouth onto his chin, his eyes bulged and his brain short fused giving him respite before he refocused with the pain still fizzing in his abdomen.

  Greene stepped back watching the Russian, who was taking rapid short breaths and his tongue lolled from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘In Korea,’ Greene said, ‘I saw a man bite his own tongue off while he was being prodded with one of these.’

  Leonid raised his head and stared. Greene stepped forward. He was going to give him a second prod. Leonid screamed with fear and tried to pull away but the straps held him fast.

  ‘No, please,’ he begged.

  Greene pushed the two metal prongs against him. Leonid shook, his eyes rolled and his jaw chomped causing his teeth to chatter. Greene could see he was fighting to keep his tongue inside his mouth. There was a catching in his throat and he fought to breathe, then finally he exhaled with the cry a pained animal makes. Unable to hold the weight of his head, his body slumped and his chest heaved as he sucked oxygen.

  Greene stood relaxed and watched while he waited for the Russian to recover his breathing and for his heartbeat to regulate. Leonid raised his head. He was a broken man. Any fight he had was gone.

  Greene stepped forward again.

  ‘No,’ Leonid pleaded.

  Greene smiled and pushed the prod against him. It didn’t work. The instrument had malfunctioned. Leonid visibly shuddered with the unexpected reprieve.

  Greene turned to Smithy.

  ‘It’s broken,’ he told him. ‘Get the other one from upstairs.’

  Smithy opened the door.

  ‘Where is it?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Look for it,’ Greene said.

  Smithy left the room.

  At the realisation of there being a replacement, Leonid panicked.

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ he said, his voice cracking as though he would never speak in the same way again.

  Greene stared into the Russian’s frightened eyes.

  ‘Wait,’ Greene said.

  He went to the movie camera and started the film rolling. He checked the viewfinder and then pushed a button on the small console to start the voice recorder, and then helped Leonid drink some water, so his voice would be clear.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he told him.

  Leonid raised his head and the camera framed his face.

  ‘We have a spy,’ he said. ‘The best spy you could ever imagine.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Greene.

  And Leonid told him. When he had finished, Greene asked him only three questions.

  ‘When she first came to America as a child how did she speak English?’

  ‘She went to Finland for six months and lived with a couple who spoke nothing but English. She picked it up like a child does,’ Leonid said.

  ‘Why haven’t you used her before?’

  ‘Kasseri has always blocked it. He’s only using her now because he had no choice,’ Leonid said.

  ‘Do you have others like her?’ Greene asked.

  Leonid shrugged, as well as the restraints would allow.

  ‘I do not know,’ he said. ‘Yes, probably.’

  Greene switched off the movie camera and remained silent.

  Smithy returned carrying the replacement prod.

  ‘Found it,’ he said.

  ‘We don’t need it,’ Greene said. ‘It’s over.’

  He replaced the hood on Leonid’s head as one might a bird to keep it quiet.

  It was black under the hood after the bright spotlights. Leonid did not feel as he thought he should. He had given away a great secret. He had betrayed Mother Russia. Somehow, he didn’t care. The electric prodder was no longer prodding. For a brief moment, he wondered about his own existence. Would the words he had spoken destroy his life? He thought about his friend Marik. Marik had never wanted to use her. Finally, he thought about Marilyn and wondered what the Americans would do to her. He did not want to think about the answer.

  Dressed in a pair of navy blue coveralls, Greene and Smithy took Leonid, hooded and cuffed, outside to the parked Oldsmobile.

  Smithy drove across the city towards the East River and the financial district. By now, it was after three in the morning and in that part of the city, the streets were quiet. Smithy pulled to a stop with the engine still running. Greene r
emoved the handcuffs, opened the car door and pushed Leonid out onto the sidewalk.

  ‘You’re home,’ he told him.

  Smithy drove away and the momentum made the door swing shut.

  ‘Do you want to get a drink?’ Smithy asked.

  ‘Take me straight to the airport,’ Greene said. He didn’t want to spend a minute longer in New York than he had to, and besides, he was eager to return to Washington. In his briefcase, he had the reel of film.

  Greene landed back in Washington early.

  He had caught the first flight of the day leaving New York. While the jet climbed he watched through the window and hoped, this time, he would never have to return.

  He took a cab to his apartment from where he telephoned McGrath. He told him he wanted to meet and McGrath replied that he would have to call him back.

  The intelligence obtained from Leonid was extremely sensitive and politically explosive. He’d been lucky Smithy had been out of the room and hadn’t heard it. The fewer the number who knew the better. The foolishness disturbed Greene. He needed to tell McGrath.

  He removed the film reel from his briefcase and put it in his safe. The telephone rang. It was McGrath calling him back. He listened.

  ‘Yes, I’ll be there,’ he said.

  He slept for five hours, and then he showered and dressed. He left in good time for the appointment. He felt himself clenching his jaw. The stupidity continued to disturb him.

  ‘She was actually born in Russia?’ said McGrath, requesting confirmation of what Greene had just told him.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘The Russian Steppes, south-west of Moscow, in a farming community.’

  McGrath smoothed his hair with the flat of his hand. He was silently gazing along the copper coloured pathway as though it led to a mystical place where men found answers just lying, uncovered on the warm, soft earth. A place where men knew everything, and the blackness of infinity was just a ghost story told to scare children.