by James Grady
"Yes, it is," replied Nurich, convincingly hiding his relief. He relaxed enough to take a bite of his lunch. Just as he put the fork in his mouth, Woodward spoke.
"Why did they give you an American gun?"
Nurich almost choked on his food. Slowly, very slowly, he chewed the tepid beans. "You looked at my supplies? Handled them?"
"Just the gun, Comrade. I'm curious about them. Why an American .45? Why not a good Russian gun, like the kind I carry?"
This time Nurich choked. He couldn't help himself.
"You're carrying a gun? You have one?"
"Of course. I bought a Russian Tokarev in a pawnshop. I had to bribe the pawnbroker not to report it. I carry it all the time."
Nurich closed his eyes, restraining a shudder. He opened. them again and gently said, "Comrade, isn't that a little risky? Suppose you are picked up with it? They could send you to prison for that alone."
"But I need it!" said Woodward.
Nurich let the subject fade. He began to eat as quickly as he could.
"And another thing, just what is his machine? I know you're taking it out West, but how does that fit into the Revolution? What good is it? Why, if they let me, I could build them hundreds of machines to blow up this city, to bring the capitalists to their knees!"
Nurich quickly drained his coffee cup. The liquid was actually too warm to drink, and he burned his tongue, but he wanted to finish so he could leave as quickly as possible. He also knew he had to reestablish control over Woodward, or the questions might lead to bigger, more dangerous outbursts. He looked at the little man with as stern a countenance as he could muster.
"Comrade Woodward, the Revolution and the party move in complicated and difficult ways. We are all tools in the movement, and we must not question our roles. A true communist does not ask why, but rather, how can I do better that which is assigned me. As the great Stalin would have said, I suggest you do the same."
Woodward stiffened at the rebuff, but Nurich saw it was with respect and almost masochistic glee. The small man's clipped reply carried a satisfied ring as he said, "Yes, Comrade!"
"Very good. Tomorrow I will call you after ten A.M. at that phone-booth number. You know the recognition signals. We can use the second phone-booth number as a fallback for one hour later if you miss the first call. We will use the same procedure when I check in from the field. Tomorrow I will tell you where to meet me with the car. Be sure to bring everything."
"Yes, Comrade!"
"Good. Now wait here for at least ten minutes after I leave. I suggest you have another cup of coffee to make it look natural." Nurich quickly stood and strode from the concessions building. He left behind, a very excited, very pleased man.
Nurich changed taxis three times on the way back to his hotel. As another routine precaution he had the last one drop him eight blocks away. Now he sat in his dingy room on the ripped pink easy chair next to the tiny bed. The cold lake wind rattled the glass in the room's one window, forcing in chilly drafts carrying diesel exhaust. Nurich stared at the door, sweating.
He didn't like it. Not at all. Ever since he had been given the assignment by Serov he hadn't liked it. Something smelled in the whole elaborate scheme. He had discussed the situation with his "true" superior in the GRU, and they both had agreed something was wrong. However, they recognized Nurich had no choice but to go along with the mission, at least for the time being. During the journey from Russia to Chicago Nurich tried to convince himself the vague uneasiness w ' as unfounded. He hadn't been successful, but at least he repressed the feelings enough to avoid anxiety. Even through the uncomfortable trip with the truck driver everything had seemed manageable. Peculiar, but manageable.
But now, he thought, on the last leg of the inward run I find myself in Chicago working with a gun-toting Stalinist madman who is liable to go crazy and start throwing bombs any minute. On this madman, thought Nurich uncomfortably, my life might well depend.
The GRU had given Nurich a panic number to call if he got in trouble in America and did not trust his KGB employers. Nurich knew the number's area code placed the GRU contact in San Diego, too far away to be of any use to him in Chicago. In any event, he thought, what would I say? The KGB employs a madman? What else is new? The mission stinks? What else is new? He might possibly convince the GRU contact to let him break out of the mission immediately, but if he did that, the KGB would have to be informed he was working for the GRU. They wouldn't like that, but at least they wouldn't try as hard to kill him if they knew the truth as they would if he broke out and no one told them. If he suddenly dropped out of their business, he would be presumed a traitor. Nurich had no desire to Join the KGB's hunted list.
I have no choice, he thought. I must continue with the mission and hope somehow I can at least pull myself out of whatever fire I'm headed toward. He shook his head in resignation, then tried to force his memory to better days and nights in Moscow.
….
"It's cold in Chicago, sir," Kevin said into the telephone. He never liked to make small talk, although making small talk with the old man was not difficult. But the old man didn't seem disposed to move directly into business, so Kevin kept up the prattle, all the while hoping the line was as secure as the Chicago branch claimed and that the old man would want to move on to business soon.
"That is a shame," replied the old man, his crisp voice carrying clearly over the long-distance line. "It's really quite beautiful here in Washington. Carl and I went for a lovely walk along the Mall this morning. The tourists are already flocking in, but even they couldn't spoil the flowers, the grass just turning green, the cherry trees beginning to bloom. Quite lovely."
"I'm sure it was, sir."
"Yes, well, enough of pleasure. I understand from your -report that Rose made another contact. Any line on him yet?"
"Yes, sir, although he seems a little unusual. His name is Woodward, Charles Woodward. He lives alone in Cicero in a cheap apartment, works for a franchised retail electronics outlet downtown and keeps pretty much to himself. He's single, has no close friends that we've been able to turn up. But of course, we're keeping our interest very, very quiet. He seems to be a typical urban hermit.
"No one has anything on him, FBI, IRS, Secret Service, Chicago police, nobody. He's got a genuine background, no record of foreign travel, no large sums of money in the bank or signs of income beyond his means. He's such a clean citizen he's almost invisible."
The line was silent for several moments while the old man thought. Finally he said, "Interesting, Kevin, very interesting. We're sure this Woodward and Rose made contact?"
"Yes, sir. We couldn't get too close to them because they mostly stayed in open areas, just open enough to see what went on around them but close enough to crowds so they could blend in and out. We were using an older woman in one of the surveillance teams. She managed to spend some time in the concession stand where they ate lunch. She carried a purse with a small movie camera built in, so we have ,some excellent films of them talking together. I've sent them on to Langley for the lip-readers to watch, but I don't think they'll get anything out of them. I wish she had carried a scope mike too, but we were afraid it might not work out.
"Besides," Kevin added ruefully, "the FBI boys here weren't so hot on that idea. But they like having the films in case they want to go to court with Woodward."
"Yes," replied the old man thoughtfully, "if we ever do go to court on this thing, films might come in handy. You know, Kevin, from your description of Woodward, I think we have one of two things. Either he is an incredible sleeper, a very good, very valuable plant that they've been saving for big things and protecting carefully, or he's someone minuscule they recruited to use for something more expendable than a cutout. If he was anything else, he wouldn't have the background he has and he wouldn't check out so clean."
"You could be right."
"Yes," continued the old man, "I could. It is important for us to know such things. In the old days, of course,
before all the flap we went through over the Ellsberg and Stratshome affairs, the matter might have been settled quite simply. It still could, if we weren't working with so many other agencies that are intent on catching L and CIA slipping up. Why, another other time there could be a little well-covered surreptitious entry,' as they say in the manuals. Something done quickly, tightly, just a pop-in to look around Woodward's apartment and get a feel for the man, see if he left anything lying about. Then out again, no one, particularly Woodward, the wiser. Could be done in the daytime, while he was at work,
"But, of course, all that is absurd to even contemplate now. If we were caught, the other groups might make something of it, although I'm sure if it weren't for us, they would be pulling that same thing. What they would find might give them a jump on the opposition and everyone else. Ah, well, Kevin, we must be content with what we can do."
Kevin smiled. "Yes, sir, we must. Is there anything else?"
"No, my boy, I think not. Condor is back in the States. His little sojourn into Canada was as fruitless as I thought it would be, but he'll continue with his cover and the survey. I doubt he'll find much. He says he has no ideas about anything you’ve learned so far, but we will continue to keep him informed. Never know what his fertile little mind might come up with. After all, his untrained imaginative talent is his whole value. We mustn't let such a talent go to waste by not cultivating it. We may grow nothing, but then again, who knows?"
"Indeed not, sir," replied Kevin softly, "indeed not. If there's nothing else, I'll go take care of some routine chores. I will report to you again tomorrow."
"I'll be looking forward to that, Kevin," the old man said softly, "I'll be looking forward to that."
Carl hung up his receiver at the same time the old man lowered his. Carl respectfully waited until the old man looked at him for comment, then he said, "Do you think he understood, sir?"
"Of course, Carl, of course he understood. No doubt he will give very firm, explicit orders forestalling any of our colleagues from rash activity. I'm sure he will log those orders too. All in all," the old man said happily, "I think Kevin will continue to handle this little matter most correctly. Most correctly."
….
Time as such had lost all reference for Serov. The KGB bureau chief sat behind his desk in the bare, windowless Moscow office in numb concentration. Every so often, usually no more than once a month, the pressures of his work and the amount of paper shuffling he needed to complete reached flood-level proportions. He usually knew when such an occasion was imminent and some days he would, as a mere affectionate courtesy, tell his wife not to expect him until she saw him. Serov's wife didn't ask or expect to be told his schedule. Over the years she had grown accustomed to her husband's erratic life-style, but nothing ever eased the tension she felt when he did not arrive at his usual time. She dared not ask him about his work, nor did she really want to know. She even feared acknowledging his consideration with more than a quick smile when he told her of possible absences.
Serov had not seen his wife for several meals and sleep periods. When things became this pressing, what with the trouble in Beirut and the unexpected coronary of an old resident agent in Paris, to say nothing of Gamayun, Serov ate and slept in his office. He ignored his watch, relying on his underlings to keep him informed of relevant scheduled periods. The effort he expended in such prolonged work sessions exhausted him, but he actually minded the strains of crisis less than the strains of everyday existence. At least with a crisis, he knew it would in some fashion pass. Maybe good, maybe bad, maybe he would even die because of it, but at least there was that air of finality, of completion. Everyday existence and everyday life were not so kind, for he. never knew what they would bring, how or when they would end.
Serov was surprised but not alarmed when his superior, Ryzhov, strolled into the office. Serov thought he knew why Ryzhov was there.
"Things are going well with Gamayun?" inquired his superior.
"Things are going as expected," Serov replied carefully. "Nurich has contacted Woodward in Chicago. Woodward has not fallen apart. I have not been informed that Nurich has left Chicago, but I think that should happen soon. I can ring my aide and find out exactly when, if you like."
Ryzhov waved the offer aside and slowly walked around the room, his eyes casually scanning the bare walls. "That won't be necessary. I already read the projected schedule. Tell me, do you have any suggestions?"
Go easy, thought Serov, his paranoia not quite defeated by his fatigue. "Perhaps. I have given a good deal of thought to our earlier discussions. As you noted, Nurich is good. In all likelihood he will at least, get to the 'reconnaissance' site. Our agents have verified that he is under surveillance by the Americans. Evidently the Americans are expending a great deal of! Effort. Therefore, we can assume they have at least tentatively bought the story we built for them.
"However, I am worried that they may not buy the whole thing if we don't help them a little more. Undoubtedly the CIA will deal with Nurich before he is turned over to the FBI for trial. What the CIA learns from him may shake the story somewhat. I don't know how, but I think that this is a very real possibility.
"I also think we should give the Americans something more for their effort. After-all, they are expecting something big and flashy, so they should have it. I think we should, at the opportune moment, heat up the situation."
Ryzhov smiled at his underling. "Go on."
Quickly, clinically, Serov sketched his idea. Ryzhov smiled but made no comment until Serov had paused after explaining what he felt was the least feasible variation on his proposal.
"You know, Comrade Serov," Ryzhov said, "I think you are handling this very well. I am pleased. I am sure Krumin will be pleased also. This could be a very good thing for you.’’
Serov carefully replied, "I am only doing my duty, sir."
"Yes, well, you do it well."
Serov sat quietly after Ryzhov left the room, making no sound or motion until he was reasonably sure his commander was not immediately returning. Before he went back to work on the Paris problem, Serov sighed, then he banished his fears behind his concentration.
12
"What, do you call yourself?" the Fawn said at last. Such a soft sweet voice it had!
"I wish I knew!" thought poor Alice. She answered, rather sadly, "Nothing, just now."
"Think again," it said: "that won't do."
Alice thought, but nothing came of it. "Please, would you tell me what you call yourself?" she said timidly. "I think that might help a little."
"I'll tell you, if you'll come a little further on," the Fawn said, "I can't remember here."
The comprehensive burglar tools and keys made it a simple matter. Kevin found the correct pick for the heavy upper lock on his third attempt. The lock in the door handle was even easier. Kevin and his assistant quietly entered Woodward's apartment less than one minute after they reached his door.
They gained entrance to the apartment building through the relatively new technique of presenting a special gift award to one of the building's other tenants. The gift cost less than a bribe to the building superintendent and avoided the problem of the super regaining his conscience and reporting the bribe to the burgled tenant. All that was necessary was a letter delivered to a tenant in the building who would probably be home during the day. To provide a margin of safety, Kevin arranged for three of the building's tenants to "win" a nonexistent contest and receive notification through special messenger the evening before. The lucky winners eagerly answered -the buzz on their intercom system.
Before the security-conscious and sophisticated sixties and seventies a burglar usually could gain entrance to any large apartment building by pressing as many of the call buttons as he could. Someone inevitably let him in without taking the time to ascertain who wanted admittance, but those days are by and large gone. A burglar might spend all day pushing buttons outside an apartment building, and without a plausible excuse he would pro
bably never get in the building.
Five men constituted the burglary team. Kevin and two assistants each went to a different apartment to deliver the "prize." This division of labor saved time and also gave the apartment dwellers three different men to describe, just in case anyone should ask. Kevin took one man with him to burglar Woodward's third-story apartment. He stationed another man to guard the head of the -stairs. Outside, a second lookout watched the alley and the rear fire escape while a fifth sat across from the front door in a parked car. All five carried small radios,, and all of Kevin's assistants were tested career CIA agents who knew their mission was a secret from everyone, including their colleagues. The prospect of doing something they alone knew about" gave them a sense of being one up on their colleagues.
Kevin and his assistant slipped into the apartment with drawn, silencer-equipped revolvers. All their surveillance led them to believe Woodward's apartment was empty, but it is best to err on the side of caution. They quickly checked the small efficiency's closets to be sure no one lurked inside.
They struck pay dirt almost immediately. "Kevin," whispered his assistant, "look at this?"
Woodward lived in a paranoid world in which his enemies spied on him everywhere, seeking to foil his and the great Stalin's efforts. He normally hid anything which might connect him with his idol. Three years before, he had sent an old photograph of Stalin to one of the numerous addresses listed in the back of many magazines where, for $1, your favorite photo would be blown up to poster proportions. As a rule, Woodward kept this glorious treasure carefully rolled and stashed under his bed, but to celebrate his revolutionary foray with Nurich, Woodward taped the poster to the inside of his closet door. Every night he came home, sat on his bed and gazed at the open closet door, basking in his idol's cold, merciless stare.