by William Hood
“You’re a sophisticated man,” Zitkin said. “I’ll not insult your intelligence with a lecture on the laws of the Czech Republic.” He paused before saying, “And so, I urge you not to insult me with any foolish cover legend. What you do not tell me, I can assure you my colleague is getting from your Mr. Anderson.”
“I’m a businessman, here to meet a man who promised some export opportunities. It doesn’t matter what he may have to say about it … ”
“I warned you once,” Zitkin said. “Do not waste my time.”
“What can I say … ?”
“You can save me the trouble of explaining all this to my Russian liaison contact at the embassy here. I’m less interested in your documents than I am in just what it is you have to sell the American and your earlier work here in Prague.”
“What work? You have my papers, the passport will show only one previous visit … ”
“You tax my patience … ”
Volin raised both arms, his hands upturned, fingers spread, his life an open book, nothing concealed. “There’s some mistake, you have me confused with someone else. I’m an Austrian trying to establish a business. I know nothing about Russians or embassies. What more can I say?”
“Let’s begin with what you’ve got for Anderson,” Zitkin said.
Before Volin could speak, a light flashed on the intercom, the timing so perfect Trosper suspected Zitkin had summoned the interruption by pressing a hidden button beneath his desk. Zitkin picked up the phone and barked, “Jes … ” He listened a moment, spoke a few words in Czech, and switched back into German, “Ich komme gleich … ” He dropped the phone onto the cradle and turned to Volin. “By the time I get back, you will begin speaking freely.” Zitkin took the sheaf of papers from the in-tray and walked around the desk. “If your statement doesn’t check with what the American is already telling my colleague, you will be in deep trouble indeed.” As he stepped toward the door, Zitkin paused. With his closed fist he tapped Volin firmly on the shoulder. “Verstehen Sie!”
Zitkin pulled the door open and shouted, “Pika!” The short, thickset technician stepped into the office. Zitkin pointed at Volin, said a few words in Czech, and strode out of the room.
Trosper turned away from the screen as Zitkin stepped into the observation room behind him.
“So,” said Zitkin, “please to spare me any critique of my performance.”
“Just two words,” Trosper said. “Exactly right … ”
Despite himself, Zitkin smiled and stepped to peer through the one-way glass. “What do you think? Will half an hour do it?”
“I should think so,” Trosper said. “Just enough for him to figure that I’m talking freely, but not so long that he thinks your staff is having to beat down my resistance.”
Zitkin nodded. “Time enough for a sandwich and coffee, or perhaps a Pils?”
37
Prague
Zitkin settled himself in the heavy wooden chair behind his desk and pulled on his reading glasses. He scanned a sheaf of handwritten notes before looking up to study Volin. “Now, Herr Gruber, start talking.”
Volin pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his nose before wiping at the sweat forming along his shirt collar. “This is all a great mistake.” He glanced hopefully at Zitkin. No reaction.
“Perhaps more a misunderstanding than a mistake,” Volin suggested. “I can explain it all if you will listen … ”
Zitkin remained motionless, hunched forward, elbows on the desk, fingers laced together. He peered, unblinking, over the rims of his half-glasses.
“The Americans bled me white, then tricked me … ”
Zitkin leaned back from the desk and folded his arms across his chest.
“All I need is a little cash, enough to get me out of this mess, and to give me a chance in business. I swear to God that I … ”
Zitkin raised his hand, a bored policeman bringing traffic to a halt. “What are you selling?”
Volin took a deep breath. “I told him about a spy, an important agent, a bad leak in their security … ”
“That was the first trip,” Zitkin said.
“He gave me nothing, not a penny … ”
With an impatient gesture, Zitkin brushed Volin’s comment aside. “For the last time … ”
Volin began to rock from side to side, a frustrated infant about to begin shaking his crib. “You’ve treated me decently, there’s something I can share with you,” he said. “Like all those people, Anderson has money, plenty of it. He’ll pay whatever I ask for the information I have. We can share, there’ll be plenty.” For the first time, Volin hazarded eye contact with Zitkin.
The fury in Zitkin’s expression skewered Volin as effectively as a bayonet thrust. In the instant the impact of his mistake registered, Volin’s expression flashed from a tentative affinity to panic.
Zitkin rose from behind the desk. Volin attempted to push his chair back, beyond reach of the Czech, and blurted, “I mean you can use the money for expenses in your operations, it can go to your service.” Zitkin stepped to the side of the desk and with both hands grabbed the lapels of Volin’s jacket. With a single movement, he heaved Volin to his feet. “Du unverschaemter Scheisskerl,” he shouted. “In my own office, you offer bribes to me!” He shook Volin free of the floor and like a farmhand heaving a bale of hay, flung him across the room. The Russian crashed backwards against a small table. Striving to keep his balance, he stumbled sideways, and fell. A lamp toppled off the table onto the floor. The bulb broke with a pop.
As the Czech moved quickly across the room, Volin pulled himself to his knees and raised both arms, uncertain whether to defend himself against Zitkin’s fists or heavy shoes.
The door flew open and Lieutenant Syrovy burst into the interrogation room. He glanced quickly at Volin, then turned to Zitkin and said in German, “Did you ring, Chef?”
Zitkin whirled to face Syrovy. Then, his back to Volin, he winked. “The prisoner appears to have taken a fit,” Zitkin said in German. “Please get him back to his chair before he has another seizure.” Trosper hitched his chair closer to the one-way glass.
Zitkin continued to leaf through the sheaf of notes until he glanced up at Volin. “All recovered?” he asked. “Ready to talk?”
Volin stuffed the sweaty handkerchief back into his trouser pocket, heaved a deep sigh, and said, “First, I will admit that I was with the Center, forced by a stupid indiscretion when I was at university in Kiev. A colonel’s daughter — an important man in the security service — accused me … ”
“Quickly now,” Zitkin said heavily.
“She told her father I had seduced and abandoned her.” Volin smiled. “A tramp like that, nobody needed to seduce.”
“And then, of course, the colonel forced you to become an informer?”
“He had the girl aborted, and blamed me for everything … ”
“Am I supposed to believe this impressed the Americans?”
Volin shook his head. “They know me as a senior agent formerly with the First Chief Directorate, Line S, the illegals component.” With an impatient beckoning gesture, Zitkin hurried Volin along. “I was a good student, but my work for the security organs wrecked my university career. When I failed my examinations, I was ordered to Leningrad — St. Petersburg — for work among the American and foreign students at the university there … ”
“Could any of this have interested Anderson?”
“You misunderstand,” Volin said. “What I’m saying is that because I was successful and good at languages, I was transferred to the ‘S’ Directorate for higher training. By the time I realized what was happening it was too late, I couldn’t get free of them, they wouldn’t release me.”
“Of course not, there are so few good people for that work,” Zitkin said, his sour expression intensifying the irony of his tone.
“I’d learned good English, and went quickly through the other studies to prepare for serious work as an ille
gal agent in America. I knew that once there I could escape, and find a decent life. As a final step, I was sent to Prague, a safe place for me to accustom myself to Western ways and to get more practical experience. After months, I was called back to Moscow to be fitted with a legend and new papers to support it. It was then I learned I would be sent to New York, and was given the file of the important agent I was to handle. When I read the file, I knew I couldn’t do it — the agent was a woman who had been blackmailed, quite innocent until they set someone against her. It was a crime, I would have no part … ”
“But you did go to the States?”
Volin raised both hands as if in surrender, the exposed palms framing the image of a simple man snared by fate. “What could I do, what could any of us have done against the power of that service?”
Zitkin shrugged. “And so you turned yourself over to the Americans?”
“I went to them in Germany, before I even began my mission. They took me to the States, where I told them everything, explaining that the woman was innocent … ”
“And they rewarded you handsomely?” Zitkin’s smile flickered. Volin snorted. “They put me in a camp and squeezed almost everything from me. They had the woman killed, pretending it was a robbery in the park in New York, just to avoid the publicity of a trial. There was nothing I could do to save her … ”
“And then they threw you aside?”
“They said that if I ever spoke about it, they would turn me back to the Russians.” As he gained confidence, Volin risked an ingratiating smile.
“But your interrogation continued?”
“It went on until I escaped from their custody. But once I was on my own again, it was clear I didn’t have enough money to get started. As much as I distrusted the Americans, I knew it was more important to put an end to the old Soviet apparat, because I knew the new people would cling to the old ways, keep the old agents in place. For once my two objectives matched. I would disclose more of what I knew — priceless for American security — and ask to be paid enough to get myself started again.”
“And so you arranged for Anderson to come here,” Zitkin said, “and you gave him enough information to close the leak?”
Volin’s smile broadened. “Yes, that was my purpose. I left some information — a bona fide — for him hidden on the park bench where you arrested him. You must have found it.”
“I see … ”
“But as usual dealing with these people I got nothing for it.”
“Still, you carried on?”
“Only because I had even more important data that I felt I must disclose,” said Volin with a shy smile. “And, to be blunt, because I still need money for business purposes.”
“I’ve been patient with you,” Zitkin said sharply. “Now I’m going to check what you’ve said against what Anderson is telling my colleague. When I come back, you’ll have a last chance to tell me what it is you planned to sell to Anderson … ”
“But, he will lie … ”
Zitkin got up and moved toward the door. “On the basis of what you tell me when I get back, I’ll decide whether to deliver you to the Russian embassy, or hand you and your counterfeit passport over to the Austrian police at the border. I gain credit either way. If you’re smart, you’ll tell the truth, and not try to hand me another dish of Schmarm.” He waited before saying, “It will be up to you, but make no mistake, you’ll have five minutes to make your case.”
“But … ”
Zitkin opened the door and bellowed for Pika.
Trosper pulled back from the glass as Zitkin stepped into the monitoring room.
“I’d heard that you people played rough,” Zitkin said as he closed the door behind himself. “But shooting some poor woman in the park?” He laughed. “I suppose it was cheaper than staging a trial … ”
“That’s not quite what happened,” Trosper said. “She died in a mugging days before Volin made contact with us. He didn’t even know she’d been killed when we brought him to the States.” Zitkin listened attentively until he glanced at his watch.
Trosper picked up the earphones as Zitkin stepped back into the interrogation room.
38
Prague
“Quickly now,” Zitkin said. “Why is Anderson back in Prague?”
Volin looked up but avoided eye contact. He coughed and cleared his throat. “Some coffee — water, anything,” he said, pleading.
Zitkin flipped a switch on the intercom and muttered in Czech. Syrovy pushed the door open, spoke a few words to Zitkin, and handed Volin a tumbler half filled with water.
Volin nodded his thanks, and said, “When I came to Prague, I worked with Oleg Kozlov, the culture attaché at the embassy, you can check in your files. In truth, Kozlov was the ‘S’ — illegals — representative. Before coming here, his first field job was in Tehran. From what he said, he did well, got good promotions. But there wasn’t much for him here in Prague, just small matters, getting blank copies of Czech documents, passports, ID cards, things like that … ” Volin caught Zitkin’s expression and said quickly, “It had nothing to do with Czech security, just documentation for illegal work in other countries … ”
“I’ll judge what concerns Czech security,” Zitkin said, adding a note to the pad on his desk.
“Of course, of course,” said Volin, taking a deep breath. “Aside from that, Kozlov had little to do here unless an agent was staging through Prague en route to assignment in the West.” He waited for a reaction from Zitkin. None.
“To understand my relations with Kozlov, you have to know he was here alone, no wife, no girlfriend. It was natural that I introduced him to a woman I knew, not too young, but nice enough.” Volin smiled, a man of the world inviting Zitkin to share his sophistication. “Of course Kozlov was grateful, but I would have done as much for anyone. So, we became friends. One night when we were having drinks, Kozlov began talking about Iran, the intrigues and back-biting in the Tehran embassy and how bad the operating conditions were for the rezidency.”
Volin’s speech came faster as he gained confidence. “From what Kozlov said, the best thing that happened to him in Iran was getting to know his chief, Colonel Golobev, in charge of illegals work in Iran. Golobev was developing a woman — half Iranian, maybe with an Armenian mother, I’m not sure. Her family came from the border area in the north. In the old days, that part of Iran was under Russian influence. No one cared too much about nationality, and Armenians moved back and forth across the border like it was one country. But under Lenin, things tightened. The Armenians who settled on the Soviet side of the border were told to become Russians or get out. Some stayed, the smart ones fled into Iran. The strange thing is that even after a few generations in Iran, some families continued to keep their ties to Russia alive. They spoke Russian, celebrated holidays, and mixed in with the White Russians who came over after the defeat of the White Army.”
“Your point?” Zitkin demanded.
“Simple enough — Kozlov’s boss fell in love with this half-Armenian woman, completely infatuated.” Then, as if taking Zitkin more deeply into his confidence, Volin added with a leer, “Believe me, it’s been known to happen, even to a widow with a son fourteen, maybe even a year or two older. The point is that under the pretense of bringing her to the U.S.S.R. for training as an illegal, Golobev smuggled the woman and her son out of Iran and into the U.S.S.R. This was in 1982, maybe 1983, but Golobev already had a big reputation, and knew everyone, so no questions were asked. Of course the woman never returned to Iran.”
“What about the boy?”
Volin nodded his head shrewdly. “I think he was called ‘Gholam,’ a very Persian name. A few times Kozlov slipped and called him that. But Anderson will have no trouble identifying him — an Iranian and recruited by the Firm in Vienna. There can’t be very many who fit that description.” Volin took another sip of water. “The boy was lazy and spoiled, with no interest in anything but a comfortable existence. All he really wanted was to go b
ack to the life he knew best, Iran. But Golobev had another plan — he had had a death certificate fabricated showing that the mother had died in Iran about the time he smuggled the boy and her out. After long training in the special school, he had the service slip the boy back into Iran, to Tehran, where some of the mother’s relatives took him in. Blood is thick in that culture, and no one else even knew that Gholam had ever left Iran. Golobev’s idea was that as soon as Gholam was old enough, he would apply for the Iranian diplomatic service, or the interior ministry. In either place, even as a clerk, he would be of use to the ‘S’ Directorate, for documents, things like that.”
Volin stopped to take a sip of water. “And that is just what happened. Gholam was a bona-fide native speaker, not a trace of accent — a real clerk type, educated, but not too ambitious, a dreamer interested in music and books, but always on the watch for an extra bit of cash. Perfect for a support agent.”
“Do you really think Anderson will pay you for that story?” Zitkin said.
“He’ll pay, because what I haven’t explained is that Gholam married and got a job in the foreign ministry.” Volin waited before adding slyly, “If I were an active intelligence man, I might wonder if Golobev had a man inside the ministry who helped to arrange Gholam’s job, and I might even think of having someone with experience in this work find this guy and shake him down for work on my behalf.”
Trosper leaned away from the see-through mirror and laughed aloud.
Zitkin waved the proposition aside and beckoned Volin to continue.
Volin shrugged, and began to speak more rapidly. “Whatever the reason, Gholam was assigned to Vienna, a clerk in the embassy there. He’d only been there a few weeks when he met an American, a young guy, who’d been circulating around the coffee houses where some of the Iranians and their friends hung out. The American pretended to have some money to invest in developing a business in Iran, but typical American, he was so conspicuous and naive that he might as well have paraded himself as an agent. After three or four meetings, he propositioned Gholam to feed him information from the Iranian embassy and community — ‘just a little inside stuff that would help set up a business.’ But Gholam had spotted him right off and had already told Golobev’s man in the embassy about it. The Russian told him to accept — ‘Tell the stupid Americans anything they want to know about Iran, just don’t make yourself too important, don’t risk exposing yourself.’”