He drew out from his breast pocket a pack of Lucky Strikes and a fountain pen. In the cigarette pack were concealed several small sheets of paper; he took one out. It was a one-time-pad sheet printed on a piece of nitrated rice paper so that it would catch fire instantly; it could also be dissolved in hot water, even swallowed if need be. He unscrewed the body of the fountain pen, in which was tightly furled a silk handkerchief measuring nine by four inches. He flung it open, pressed it flat against the canvas tarp. The entire silk square was covered with tiny groups of letters arranged in a grid.
These two items—the rice-paper one-time pad and the silk key—taken together made up the most sophisticated encryption system that had ever been developed. Known as the Vigenère table, it had recently been developed in London by Churchill’s Special Operations Executive for use by agents in the field. The British were far ahead of the Americans in matters of codes and ciphers, Corky had often complained, because they took the necessity of espionage much more seriously. The genius of this system was that it was not only foolproof and fairly easy to use, but it was also unbreakable, even by the most powerful code-breaking machines. Each letter of the English alphabet was replaced by any of the other letters in a wholly random series. No pattern to the code could ever be discerned; the cryptogram could never be solved by the enemy even if the transmission was intercepted. Each key was used only once and then destroyed; the only duplicate was kept at the home station, and no key was the same. Formally this polyalphabetic substitution cipher was known as the “infinite incoherent key.” Corky often called it the ultimate weapon.
Metcalfe turned on the power, then set the switch to Tune. He depressed a key, turned a knob marked with an arrow until a neon tube lit up. Moving another knob to Transmit, he selected the position that most brightly lit up the tuning bulb, indicating the frequency with the strongest signal. Now the transmitter was ready to operate.
He had composed and encrypted his message in advance, of course. It was an urgent message for Corky informing him of what had happened in Moscow, of the existence of the GRU “minder,” Kundrov, who had been assigned to Svetlana, and asking for background on the man. Metcalfe also relayed to Corky the alarming degree of surveillance that had been placed on him, particularly the quality of the talent. He raised the question of whether his cover had somehow been blown. Finally, he wanted to give Corky his immediate assessment of von Schüssler, which echoed Amos Hilliard’s—the German was no prospect for recruitment. But everything had to be abridged, condensed to the shortest possible format, using standard and other agreed-upon abbreviations. Printed on the silk master key was, in addition to the alphanumeric substitution grid, a series of code groups that represented commonly used phrases that might be employed by an agent in the field: “have arrived safely,” say, or “safe house located.” Further, Corky had issued another set of hyperabbreviated letter groups that stood for complex thoughts or long expressions.
Moreover, Metcalfe had to communicate not by voice but by Morse code. There was no choice. It wasn’t simply a matter of the security of transmission, although that was certainly a factor. But more important was the fact that voice signals simply could not be transmitted more than a few hundred miles; such was the technology. Continuous-wave broadcasts—meaning Morse code signals—traveled five times farther.
Moving the lantern close, he read over the scrap of paper he’d slipped into the empty Lucky Strikes pack. The long series of letter groupings would look like gibberish to the casual observer, but it was not the casual observer he was concerned about. Skilled agents, such as Lana’s minder or the blond NKVD man, would know immediately it was a code of some sort, even if they could never decrypt it. This slip of paper, along with the onetime pads and the silk key, were extraordinarily dangerous pieces of evidence if ever he was searched.
Move it, he told himself. You’re sitting here in a goddamned pool of light in a dark forest outside of Moscow. Every minute that ticks by adds to the risk of discovery.
He began tapping the telegraph key, which was located at the bottom right corner of the transceiver’s face. It was slow work: he was out of practice, not having had to operate a field radio in Paris, and the poor illumination made things still more difficult. Still, he managed to complete the transmission in little over a minute. It was addressed to home station 23-C, which automatically flagged Corcoran. The decoded message would be dispatched to him at once through secure channels. As soon as Metcalfe heard the code signaling receipt and acknowledgment, he removed his headset and switched off the transceiver.
He moved quickly now, extinguishing the light, disassembling the machine, and removing the crystal, then closing its case and rewrapping it in its canvas tarpaulin. He placed the bundle back into the hole, replaced the flat rock over it, and then, as thoroughly as he could, swept the detritus and organic matter from the forest floor in a pattern that looked undisturbed.
He heard the crack of a branch.
He froze, listened. He had no doubt that it was anything more than a chipmunk or squirrel, but still, it was always better to observe precautions.
Another crack, followed by the crunch of underbrush. And again.
It was not an animal. It was a human being. Someone was walking with difficulty through the dense forest, the labored steps seeming to come closer.
Now he was sure of it. There was no mistake.
Someone was approaching.
Metcalfe moved, as silently as he could, a few steps to his left until he was mostly shielded behind a pine tree. His heart was racing. He was standing just a few feet away from the transmitter, which he had just buried. But he could not be sure that he hadn’t been observed placing the machine in the ground. How long, he tried to think, had his flashlight been on? Had that drawn the attention of whomever it was coming this way?
He realized, too, that if he was discovered here, it was likely that the transmitter would be discovered soon after; they would wonder what he was doing here, and a search would be conducted.
He had to run; he could not risk being found out. Not only was he standing a few feet away from a sophisticated piece of spy equipment, whose warm tubes would indicate recent use, but he had on his person other incriminating pieces of evidence. There was the silk handkerchief printed with the cryptographic key, which he’d wadded up and stuffed into his jacket pocket; there was, too, the cigarette pack that held the rice-paper one-time pads. There was the transceiver crystal. All were unmistakable proof that he was a spy. If I’m caught, I’m a goner for sure.
Should he toss them, drop them to the ground, simply get rid of them? And then what? As soon as he took off running, he would be followed, and whatever he had dropped on the ground was likely to be found. Dropping them as he ran might just call attention to them. And the fact was, he didn’t want to lose this vital equipment. The crystal was irreplaceable. Without it, he could no longer transmit to the home station. Without the onetime pads and the silk key, he’d be unable to encrypt his messages. He would be isolated in Moscow without a means of contacting Corcoran.
It was clear that he had no choice. He had to run—but as soon as he did, a pursuit would begin. For a moment he was frozen in indecision, running through his options, considering what made the most sense. He peered into the gloomy night, trying to see who it was who was approaching. That damned NKVD agent, the blond man with the pale eyes who seemed to find him no matter where he went? Or the GRU lieutenant, Kundrov, Lana’s minder?
No. It was neither of those men. Now he could just make out, in the dim light, the approaching figure. He appeared at first to be a military man, in a loden overcoat and field cap. Then Metcalfe realized that the man was from the NKVD. He could see the epaulets, the insignia on the cap. Definitely from the Soviet security service, presumably from the NKVD’s guards directorate, a separate department within the service whose officers were charged with protecting the nation’s borders and secure areas.
A detachment from the NKVD would logicall
y be assigned to patrol the area surrounding the American embassy dacha. The NKVD liked to keep all foreigners, especially Americans, under close surveillance, and a country house required particular attention. The security organs assumed that all diplomats were secretly spies—after all, most of the Soviet diplomats assigned abroad were spies, so why shouldn’t every other country work the same way? Thus it was a matter of vital national security that a cordon of guards patrol the area surrounding the embassy property. Too, it was possible that these woods bordered some secure installation—the forests around Moscow were dotted with bases and institutes connected with the Red Army or the GRU or the NKVD.
But he hadn’t expected a patrol at this time of night. And was it possible that there was a single guard? No, that made no sense. They made their circuits in patrols of two or three at the very least. At this time of night, their circuits would likely be infrequent, which was why Metcalfe had seen or heard nothing until now.
But if there was one sentry, there had to be others.
The guard continued to approach. He was barely into his twenties, but that didn’t mean he was inexperienced. He was walking in the dark, without benefit of a torch, indicating that he was trained to circulate in these woods at night and knew the paths, the clearings. The Russian had an automatic advantage over Metcalfe, who did not. Seconds ticked by; Metcalfe could no longer stand here, hidden behind the trunk of a tree. If the guard came any closer, he would notice the interloper.
Suddenly a match was struck! Then, just as quickly, the match was extinguished.
The NKVD sentry had lit a match, but not for the sake of illumination, nor to light a cigarette. It was a signal—a signal to others! A rustling came from a good distance away: the tramping of boots against the ground. Metcalfe heard voices now, rapid phrases exchanged, their tone of voice indicating urgency. The other members of his team, summoned by the match strike, were running, crashing through the woods, not bothering to disguise their movements. They were converging on him!
Metcalfe spun around, vaulted through a narrow opening between two trees, scraping against the branches with a noise that was loud but unavoidable. He put on a burst of speed, running as fast as he could manage. He zigzagged from clearing to clearing, trying to look far enough ahead to make out an open path, but the night was too dark, the visibility limited. He could see no more than fifty feet ahead.
Shouts in Russian came from behind, instructions given from senior officer to junior. Though he dared not turn around, he could hear an alteration in the sound pattern that told him the men had split up, each taking a different path, hoping to anticipate any direction their quarry might take and thus intercept him.
No flashlights, though. Perhaps the men had no need of light, since they knew the woods. Or perhaps they didn’t want to delay long enough to get out their torches. Whatever the reason, it was good for Metcalfe: the darkness was the best cover.
He remembered a little of the topography of the land here, though only what he had observed from his brief stroll around the dacha with Lana and on the short, interrupted drive leaving the party. He knew the forest undulated, that there was a valley—he had seen it from the backyard of the dacha—and his sense of direction told him that he was heading roughly in the direction of the valley. This was confirmed by the gradual downhill pitch of the land.
But how could he hope to outrun a team of experienced guards?
Perhaps he couldn’t. But he would have to try. The alternative was frightening. If they managed to apprehend him and brought him to the Lubyanka, he would be imprisoned and there was absolutely nothing Corky or anyone else in the U.S. government could do for him. An American spy in Soviet Russia would be sentenced to prison, perhaps placed in the prison camps in Siberia—the dread gulag he had heard about—or, more likely, executed.
Impelled by terror, he ran as he had never run before, weaving through the trees, then into a clearing, veering off in an irregular, jagged pattern that he hoped would confound his pursuers.
Suddenly a shot was fired!
An explosion. A bullet splintered a tree trunk not five feet away. And then—another! This shot creased the birch tree barely a foot away. The forest was now filled with loud gunfire, the bullets whizzing by, one of them coming so close to his head that he could feel the gust of wind at his ear. He sprawled abruptly to the ground in order to confuse them, sprang forward on his hands and knees, then scrambled to his feet, running with his head down, moving this way and that in a crazy, jerky pattern. A frightened man always reverts to the predictable, Corky liked to say. The easiest course, the shortest distance between two points. So he would have to violate that natural, predictable course of behavior.
Another volley of shots, several wildly off but one alarmingly close. They seemed to be coming from three very different points; obviously, the men had split up, hoping to converge on him. At least one of the guards had the rare ability to fire with great accuracy even while giving chase. Just up ahead Metcalfe spied a rocky outcropping at the top of a slight rise. He headed toward it, hoping that the boulders and scree might make for temporary cover, obstruction against the gunfire. Bounding ahead, he then leaped into the air, landing painfully on the rocky ledge. He groaned, looked up, saw the gleam of ice in the faint moonlight. He was on the ridge of a deep ravine through which a creek ran, though it appeared now to be frozen, its banks covered with ice and snow.
The drop was a good twenty feet. To jump would be hazardous. But to turn back around would be even riskier, he realized. Another volley of gunfire pitted the ground, pinged against the boulders; the wild inaccuracy told him that he had succeeded in putting some distance between himself and his pursuers, who were now far enough behind that even from their various vantage points, they couldn’t yet draw an accurate bead on him. Perhaps they couldn’t even see him; that was possible. He grabbed a sizable rock and hurled it as far as he could, back and to the right. It hit the ground with a thud and a loud rustle.
A volley of shots followed immediately, raking the trees and the ground where the rock had hit, indicating that his tactical diversion had been effective.
Then, without allowing himself to think—operating only out of an instinct for self-preservation—he leaped into the air, landing with a violent crash on the hard, icy riverbank, his legs tucked into his torso to minimize the impact. The pain jagged through his body as he lost his footing, hurling down the ice-cragged bank toward the river. Getting unsteadily to his feet, he stood at the edge of the frozen creek and tested it with an outstretched foot. It was solid, the ice at least several inches thick. He would be able to cross it. Gingerly he stepped onto the ice, then took another step—and immediately broke through, plunging into the semi-frozen stream all the way up to his knees. He gasped. The water was extraordinarily cold, so much so that as he struggled along the streambed to climb back upon the icy surface his feet quickly became numb.
Gunfire echoed far behind him, seeming to indicate that the pursuers had been misled, were heading in the wrong direction. All it would take would be for one of them to climb to the ridge overlooking the stream and he would be spotted.
The frozen surface of the stream here was thin, breaking as he moved forward through the amazingly cold water. Just as he had almost reached the other bank, his right foot, which by now felt like an inanimate object, caught in something and he tumbled forward, landing facedown on the icy, craggy bank. Now his clothes were entirely soaked in the frigid water; he shivered as he tried to get up. His feet, which had lost all feeling, would not cooperate. They were dead weight, lacking in any mobility. Looking to one side he saw, twenty-five feet ahead or so, a pile of ice-glazed dead branches and leaves on the steep incline that led up from the riverbank, which appeared to have been blown down in a storm. Metcalfe crawled along the ground until he reached the pile, and then, with what felt like the last ounce of strength remaining in his body, he dived forward into it. The brittle branches gave way easily; he sank deep into it, buried in th
e detritus. His legs were buckling, trembling; he could not go on. He needed to rest. If he tried to keep running now, he would quickly be caught. He no longer had the endurance; his reaction time had slowed. Reaching up, he grabbed wildly at the dead leaves and branches and snow-covered loam, arranging them over himself so that he was well concealed.
Barely a minute or two later he heard running footsteps, the crescendo of shouts coming closer. Metcalfe could not tell where exactly they were coming from: the patrol squad could be on the ridge above, or they could have climbed down into the ravine, in which case they would see the broken ice on the frozen surface of the stream. That would point the way to where he lay hiding. Where he lay shivering, in truth, his body shuddering violently.
Then came a shout. How far away he could not tell. “He’s over there—I see him!” It seemed to be the youngest of the group, the one who had first seen him in the forest. He was a country boy, a hick; his peasant speech betrayed him.
“What are you talking about?”
“There! Vasya, you simpleton, over there!”
“The rifle, idiot! Not the revolver!”
Had they spotted him, his greatcoat showing through the twigs? He cringed, braced himself. What could he do? If they were wrong and they were aiming in the wrong direction, the worst thing he could do would be to move from his blind, thereby attracting their attention. But if they weren’t wrong—if one of them had indeed spotted him and was preparing to fire his rifle—then he was as good as dead. One well-aimed rifle shot to the head was all it would take.
“Okay,” the young voice said.
Metcalfe was not a religious man, but he found himself praying to God that they were too far off to make an accurate shot. He squeezed his eyes shut, let his mind go blank. His heart raced.
The Tristan Betrayal Page 21