by Paul Vidich
Mueller found it an odd conversation. “Real name.”
“Why?”
“You need to establish trust.”
“I would never use my real name. That puts you in jeopardy. Trust is worthless in this business. Every one of our losses in Europe trusted Protocol.” Altman paused. “How do you think it began?”
“Where?”
“How? What started him down the path? It’s usually money. We’re all craven in our own way. The director’s rule. Remember? He wanted a small cadre of good men with a passion for anonymity. That’s what he called it. His rule was that only men with money were worth recruiting because they didn’t have to rely on a salary for living expenses, and therefore they were incorruptible. This job doesn’t pay well enough to put up with the crap we take. You, by the way, fail that profile. I, on the other hand, fit the profile. For what it’s worth.”
“I have an advantage,” Mueller said. “You have money, yes, but I don’t care. About any of it.”
Altman smiled. “You failed the polygraph. They care.”
Mueller gave a short choking laugh. He thought of Beth, whom he saw silhouetted in the window, looking out at them. He looked at Altman. “My indifference is a life preserver against a tide of joyless disappointments.”
Altman clapped twice. “Well said. You always could turn a phrase. A little cloak. A little gown.” Altman leaned forward and looked directly at Mueller. “You’re not indifferent about your son. That’s your weakness.” Altman looked over his shoulder at his sister, and then continued in a quiet voice. “The first lie is always easy. The difficulty with an untruth is to continue it and to reinforce the lie with more lies to protect the original mendacity, but then the compounding lies become this ungainly artifice that draws attention to itself. Secrecy is about what you don’t say, what you say wrongly, what you say too much of, so words become a coil in the listener’s mind. The man I trust, George, is the man who remembers his own lies, and it so happens, the man I distrust is also that man who remembers his own lies.”
Mueller and Altman looked at each other. There was a moment of understanding. Two men sharing something known to them and hidden from others.
“It can get very lonely,” Altman said. “People don’t understand this life unless they’re in it. You understand. You have to have two stories for everything to keep it all in your head. It’s exhausting. You can’t do it for long. It burns out the best of us.”
“They”—and Altman waved at the house—“never know what it costs, the deceiving, the tricks, the isolation. You need another thing to get you out of bed in the morning—a faith, adrenaline, fear. It’s hard on a marriage.” Altman looked at Mueller. “Yours didn’t last long.”
Mueller had nothing to add.
“Sometimes the loneliness is intolerable.”
The comment didn’t surprise Mueller and he waited for it to be followed, but nothing more was said by Altman for a long time. Darkness had fallen completely and the evening surrounded the perimeter of light that came from the table’s flickering candle.
“How does it end for Protocol?” Altman asked.
“He’s caught or he defects.”
A choked release of laughter came from Altman. “Live in a dacha outside of Moscow? Get trotted out as a hero of the Communist state? Parked for life? Me . . . I couldn’t bear that, or the consequence of the shame heaped on family. Of course, it’s only a matter of time before Protocol is caught. I suspect he has already felt the noose tightening and he’s begun to pull away from them, give less. But secrets are like heroin. It’s their fix.”
Altman paused. “I don’t know how this started pointing to you. If I were you I’d take the polygraph again. Clear your name.”
The night was late. A chill settled on the two men at the table.
Altman looked at Mueller. “Dessert? I made a pie.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Ride home?”
“I canoed. I’ll take it home. It’s a nice evening to paddle. Another race tomorrow?”
Altman touched his forehead. “And give you another shot at me?” He laughed. “I don’t think so.”
17
* * *
SHOTS IN THE DARK
WATER HAS two states. It divides effortlessly between rocks disappearing into the tiniest cracks, but its mass resists the hard pull of a paddle. Mueller stroked against the dark bay, and then let his canoe glide silently on the calm water under the tall trees that erupted from the shore. He worked out the tight muscle of his right shoulder that had cramped crossing the cove. Through the trees he could see the Soviet mansion on the bluff.
A full moon hung in the sky. Silvery light danced on the cove’s black lacquered surface. Mueller dipped his paddle and pointed the bow to a cluster of pine trees on a spit of land. He pulled the boat ashore in a protected spot. He ran across the beach and quickly gained the cover of the woods, where he dropped to one knee. He listened. Soft sounds loud in his ears. A voice somewhere off in the distance, or perhaps at the mansion. He became aware of the things immediately around him—leaves on the ground, a breeze rustling through high branches, air scented with fresh resin from a nearby pine. He pushed a bush aside and looked for Vasilenko’s green Buick. There had been no contact for a week, and Mueller was concerned.
Suddenly light burst from the mansion’s front door. Mueller heard men’s voices speaking Russian. They spoke quickly, in short grunted commands. These men walked down the mansion’s wide steps, dark shapes illuminated from behind by light pouring from the open door. Mueller counted three men in single file. The glow of their flashlights bounced along the path. Mueller made out the vague shape of a fourth man, hands tied behind his back. The group moved along the driveway for twenty yards, but then turned and made its way toward shore.
The restrained man stumbled, but he was supported by his two escorts, who held his arms and marched him forward. One swore under his breath and snapped a command. They walked a little way and stopped in a small clearing. Moonlight gave Mueller a good view of the little entourage. One thinner man who moved with a limp stood apart from the husky shapes. His flashlight pointed to a spot in the clearing. This was the leader. Mueller saw the red glow of his cigarette, and his face, jaw set. He had a dog that strained on a leash. It barked once. At the same moment a gurgling cry cracked like a whip in the quiet night. Startled, Mueller looked closer. The man in the middle had slumped to his knees, hands pulling madly at his neck. Another unhuman moan and the man doubled over like a rag doll. The dog barked loudly twice.
The grave dug by the men was only a temporary place to hide the body. Mueller came to this conclusion when he scraped away the sandy top soil. He worked quickly with bare hands digging in the earth, careful to place what he removed so he could return it to hide the disturbance. The soil was wet, cold, and as he dug deeper he felt winter’s bones. The first evidence was the damp cotton of a man’s shirt. He pushed dirt away from the dead man’s mouth, eyes, forehead, and neck. Mueller struck a match. A necklace of blood ringed the throat. Mueller had not expected to know the man, so he was startled to discover the corpse belonged to the driver who’d run him off the road.
Suddenly, a cry. Someone had found the canoe. Mueller was on his feet. He took a measure of the darkness all around and settled on the excited voices—two men at the shore. Their flashlights illuminated trees and brush in search of the owner. Their cries brought a group of men down the mansion’s steps and they hustled in a chaotic pack astride the driveway.
Think! Mueller looked at the corpse. He moved earth to cover his discovery, but his hands couldn’t undo in a minute what they had taken fifteen to accomplish. Men from the house were spreading out along the driveway and entered the trees at intervals. The two men at the shore moved their search to the slope. Mueller quietly filled the hole with scattered leaves, working quickly, but in haste he snapped a twi
g.
Mueller saw one man’s beam shift, seeking the source of the sound. In that instant, Mueller looked toward the bay’s shimmering surface. He knew that a run to the water risked alerting them to his presence, but there was a greater risk of being found at the grave. The corpse’s garroted throat filled Mueller with dread. That could be him. He looked left to the man coming up the slope with a beam pointed head-on, washing him in light. The man held a gun. Men from the house formed an arc closing around Mueller.
“Hey, you,” a nearby voice said in a husky accent.
Mueller waited a moment, but then took off. His arms pumped as his legs sprinted in long strides to avoid fallen logs, darting one way, changing direction when he saw a clearer path, hunters in pursuit. The first report of a gun came quickly, followed by the dog’s incessant barking. Darkness cast by the canopy of trees covered his escape, but his thrashing through the brush left a trail of sound. Excited voices all around. He kept himself fixed on the beacon of reflected moonlight on the open water. His pursuers had made a judgment about Mueller’s intentions and they too changed course and headed to shore. Their flashlight beams bounced erratically as they ran.
Mueller stopped at water’s edge. He undid one laced shoe and then did the same with the other. His fingers ripped off socks. He shoved his thighs into the shocking water, stepping from one stone to the next until he climbed a flat rock projecting from the surface. He made a long leaping shallow dive into waist-deep water. Cold locked in around him, knocking out his breath, and the frigid embrace of the bay numbed him. He rose to gulp air and saw tiny splashes to his left where their shots had missed their target. More reports from a gun. In his luckless adventure his fortune changed. One cloud moved in, blocking the full moon, and made it hard to be seen. He went under again, hands pulled in a breaststroke as his legs pushed with froglike thrusts. When his lungs could resist no longer he surfaced, gasping, greedy for air, and then went under again. This he did in an unthinking pattern until completely exhausted.
He had no sense of time. He had counted four shots, but there might have been more. His hand struck a piece of splintered wood floating on the surface and near it, a chunk of scoured Styrofoam.
Mueller paused, head bobbing on the surface, and looked around. The only markers were the distance he’d come and the amount left to swim to the opposite shore. The shrieking in his ears began to subside. He looked back where he’d left the shore. Dark shapes stood at some distance, looking across the dark water with flashlights. Head barely above water, Mueller gasped, and took a measure of the danger. He saw he’d come halfway. Beyond the cove the ghostly four-masted barque rose like a chimera from the water’s surface.
Loud voices from homes along the cove called into the night. The gunshots and barking dog had brought out residents who wanted to know what the commotion was all about. Jazz from one brightly lit home filled the evening and guests had moved to the docks and peered across the cove to the Soviet compound. These witnesses gave pause to the Russians who stood beside their docked motorboat.
Mueller moved his arms in the water in a weak crawl and headed to the nearest spit of land. He felt the smallness of his body in the immense indifference of the water.
• • •
Mueller paused when he approached the cottage. He didn’t think he’d left the porch light on. He was further surprised when he found the kitchen door open. Mueller glanced at the driveway, and then back to the county road, but he saw no cars and no sign of trespassers. Was someone inside? He peeked in the cottage’s window, saw nothing, and then he cautiously entered.
“Hello?” Quiet. He listened. “Hello?”
Mueller crossed the kitchen, containing his fear so it didn’t subvert his ability to think clearly. Mueller knelt at his duffel bag and fumbled with the zipper, catching the fabric, biting his tongue against an urge to curse. He jerked the tab through and felt for the old sock with his Colt service pistol. His breathing slowed when he had the gun in his hand.
“Hello!”
He saw a tan raincoat covered in nettles thrown across the back of a kitchen chair, and beside the chair, a battered leather suitcase covered in faded luggage stickers. A man’s muddy shoes were on the floor near the door to the sun room. Mueller followed the progression of clues.
A sound. Behind. Mueller pivoted, pistol raised.
“Shit,” Mueller growled. He lowered the pistol.
Vasilenko laughed. “I frightened you, my friend. Didn’t I? You’re jumpy.”
“You did,” Mueller said. “Yes, you frightened me. Frightened me so much that I almost put a hole in your head.”
Vasilenko wiped his hands with a towel he’d taken from the bathroom. He shrugged. “No one was home. Fall in the water?”
Mueller flicked the room’s wall switch, flooding the room with light. “No one was home? That’s not an invitation to enter. Are you alone?”
“You should change your clothes. Your lips are blue. Here.” Vasilenko tossed his towel at Mueller. “Am I alone? Yes, I am alone. Very alone. But I’m not crazy. The water is freezing. You must have a good story.”
“How did you get in?”
“A child could get in.”
“It’s late. Why are you here?”
“Why am I here?” He paused. “I need a place to stay. He looked at Mueller, evaluating his bare feet, wet hair matted to his skull. “I need help. You need to change.”
“Help for what? What’s up?”
Vasilenko shook his head disparagingly. He offered his judgment without raising his voice. “You are a fool. A bloody fool. A wet bloody fool. There is so much you don’t know.”
Mueller put down the towel. “What’s going on?”
“I have not been working for you.”
There was a beat of silence. “What does that mean?”
Vasilenko went to the unopened bottle of scotch on the counter. “May I?” Vasilenko gulped one glass and poured a second. He slumped in a chair at the kitchen table, legs stretched in front of him, and stared at Mueller. His fingers caressed the glass. “What does that mean? Yes, a good question. What does it mean,” he repeated almost to himself. He looked up. “Sit, George. Join me. Change your clothes and join me. I have something you will want to hear. It is better if you aren’t shivering.”
Mueller returned in dry clothes and took the chair opposite the Russian.
“You made contact in Washington,” Vasilenko said. “Do you remember? There was the offer you made of the shotgun. An obvious lure. I reported the contact to the rezident. He said proceed. Let yourself be recruited, but don’t make it look too easy. So I went along with your game and I let myself be surprised when the cleaning girl approached me.”
Vasilenko paused. He glanced at the door, an instinct. “You were sloppy, like your door here. Amateurish. I saw the man’s ring on the night table, and I knew you were behind the mirror. But it was my job to let you think you were landing a fish.” He hands gestured wide and theatrically. “A big fish.” He laughed his mocking gruffness. “So we let the CIA have its little victory.”
Vasilenko was quiet. His head turned to the window at the sound of a car traveling along the shore road, and when the car was gone he looked again at Mueller. “It’s not safe for me. How much am I worth to you?”
“What’s happened?”
Vasilenko waved off the question and threw back another drink. The smoky scent of scotch made Mueller want to pour himself a shot, but he rose and took milk from the refrigerator and drank from the bottle. “What was in the bag you left in Union Station?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I was the delivery boy. I never saw what I turned over. They said take it, so I took it. Chernov is the handler. He’s the one you want.”
Vasilenko leaned forward. “I want to defect.”
Mueller was quiet, thinking, hand on his chin.
Vasilenko
spoke. “There are changes. Arrests. Old grudges are being settled. Chernov.” He spat the word. “Mudak.”
Mueller looked at the Russian. “Why?”
“Why?” he snapped. He had risen excitedly in his chair, but he slumped back down. “You were getting close to Protocol. Asking too many questions. Chernov couldn’t risk having his prize asset compromised. It would be a big loss. Now is not a good time for a big loss. What I gave you . . .” He searched for the word. “I was a plant.”
“Who is Protocol?”
“You think I know!” He paused. “It’s not you.”
“How do you know?”
He scoffed. “You? If you are Protocol, it’s my death sentence.” Vasilenko looked at Mueller. He lifted a finger to make a point. “The date in Vienna. That evening in May ’forty-eight. You were in the Soviet zone. They picked that date because you were there, and Chernov knew Coffin would know. A magician’s trick. The eye watches one hand while the real action is elsewhere.” Vasilenko paused. “It’s not you because Chernov wants them to think it’s you.”
Mueller pondered that. “How was he recruited?”
“I want to defect.”
“My question first.”
Vasilenko raised his voice, then calmed himself. “Do you know what is happening in Moscow Center now? The long knives are out. Beria was taken from a meeting of the presidium in handcuffs. The head of state security publicly arrested. Have you any idea what that means? Stalin is dead. Stalin is dead.”
Vasilenko lowered his voice, but he arched his eyebrows, and he spoke almost in a whisper. “No one is safe.” He drew a cutting finger across his throat.
“My question first.”
“Are you authorized? Is this an official conversation?”
“No.”
Vasilenko shifted his bulk in the chair. “I have been recalled. My flight is in two days. When I arrive in Moscow I know what to expect. I will be taken directly from the airport to Lubyanka Prison. They will present evidence against me—all made up—for a crime they’ve made up. I will be declared an enemy of the state. I will be taken to a small cell, hands bound behind my back, asked to kneel. If I refuse they will force me to my knees. A guard will come up behind and put a bullet in the back of my head. This is how it is done.” His face had lost color. “I want to defect. What do you need from me?”