He met Dmitri in the deep darkness beside the truck. “What did you find out, comrade?”
“The babushka isn’t there,” he replied. “The old guy says she took his truck down to Kyzylorda to see her boyfriend and get some stuff before the snows.”
“Did she now,” Ushakov mused. “She go down there often?”
“Not real often, no. Once in a while they’ll go make an afternoon of it. And he’s never known her to go by herself at night before, says he didn’t know she even had a boyfriend. He was a little worried about her.”
Ushakov leaned against the truck bed and lit a cigarette. “That sound a bit off to you, Dmitri?”
He saw the private grin. “Not so much until I found out something else. Wait ‘til you hear this, comrade Colonel. She’s no babushka, she’s only about thirty. Her name is Katia, Katia Bekturov. I asked the old man why she dressed like an old woman and he said it was so our men didn’t try to have sex with her.”
Ushakov felt a quickening rush of adrenaline. It all sounded plausible—if you were born yesterday. “That so? Interesting, Dmitri. A young woman who dresses like an old one and who goes off to the city all by herself at night. What else?”
“Not much. Seems she moved here a little more than a year ago with her husband from someplace in the Ukraine, but he croaked. So the old guy employs her at his store so she can get by. She doesn’t have any children. Probably no family but he wasn’t sure of that.”
Ushakov thought quickly. “You’ve done a good job, Dmitri. A good job indeed. Return the vehicle and go back to your unit now, but I might need you some more later tonight.”
“Just send for me,” the private grinned as he got in the truck and pulled slowly out of the compound.
Elation filled Pavel Ushakov. Dmitri had succeeded beyond his wildest expectations, bringing him not only excellent intelligence but also something he hadn’t been expecting, not at all. He couldn’t be absolutely certain of his conclusions, but things were beginning to line up in familiar patterns. Kalyugin wouldn’t believe it, but he no longer cared. Now he understood why the babushka had accompanied the old man today. Now that glance she had given him, and the way it had seemed to linger a moment on his uniform, made sense! Why didn’t I question that village a month ago and tell Kalyugin to piss off!
Dmitri had almost certainly found Loginov’s handler.
U.S.S Bennington, CV 20
CTF 79, Indian Ocean
In less than two seconds the catapult shot the MiG to one hundred sixty knots. His vision returned almost instantly, just in time see the edge of the flight deck vanish underneath the MiG’s nose. For a moment there was a sickening drop as the MiG became airborne and lost altitude but then it leveled off and began a gentle climb away from the carrier. Hardin whooped in elation, turning his head to see the darkened bulk of the Bennington falling behind. The feeling of heart-stopping terror turned to euphoria as he realized the launch had been a success. No cold shot, no swimming lesson. He put his previous anxieties aside as he pulled back on the stick and climbed out at a steeper rate, settling into the familiar, comfortable experience of flying. The ocean below was a dark mass, the moon’s reflection casting a silver path away from the Bennington and the task force. He wondered where the Soviet AGI was. Up yours, you bastards!
As he eased the throttle back to military power and leveled off at a thousand feet he saw the coast of Iran looming to the north, a lighter discoloration on the dark water. The guard channel, 243 MHZ on the UHF band, was quiet; the Iranians had apparently been briefed that any flights were part of the exercise and to maintain radio silence. Pressurization had kicked in and the cockpit was markedly cooler as he checked the first page of his kneeboard and brought the MiG to a heading of 008 degrees. He saw a ridge of mountains on his map with elevations of two thousand feet marked and he pulled the MiG into another climb.
As he neared the dark coastline he saw a cluster of lights to his right, at a distance he judged to be about 20 miles. A quick glance at his kneeboard identified the lights as the port city of Bandar Beheshti—right where it was supposed to be. If he stayed on a heading of 008 he’d see another set of lights in about twenty minutes off to his left. That would be the tiny town of Bazman. Twenty minutes north of that would be Zahedan and this leg of the flight would be done.
Airspeed 400 knots, altitude 3500 feet. The lights of Bandar Beheshti quickly vanished as he crossed the first ridge, heading inland. The terrain below was utterly dark, unbroken by any lights whatsoever. This is one empty place. Probably a good spot to come with a cycle, if you had a couple hundred gallons of gas. Shortly he was past the hills and flying over a wide, flat desert whose sandy ridges and dunes seemed almost like water in the moon’s silver light. The MiG-17 was a joy to fly, the controls light and responsive. It wasn’t cluttered with complicated avionics and controls, it was a tight, utilitarian workhorse. He reflected that in their early tests it had proven able to out-turn the F-86 and in the hands of a capable pilot would be a fearsome weapon. The Russian honchos had done damn well in MiG Alley flying the inferior 15. Aside from the uncomfortable stick he had come to feel quite at home in the MiG-17. Jets were growing more advanced, their avionics suites more intricate and complex, and flying was becoming more difficult. The MiG-17 preserved the feel of an earlier day.
Strangely, his nervousness had not completely abated. It was a disquieting feeling and Hardin did not know quite what to make of it. He was not used to the edginess that seemed to lurk at the limits of awareness, and though he tried to immerse himself in the MiG’s instruments the feeling would not completely go away. You aren’t scared, are you?
Baikonur Cosmodrome, Kazakhstan
Ushakov closed the heavy wooden door of his office quietly and switched the lights on. He sat at his desk and grabbed a bottle of vodka from his bottom right drawer, splashing a shot into a paper cup. His hand was shaking and he fought to steady it. The news Dmitri had brought from Tyuratam suggested to him that Loginov’s plan was far advanced, and now he was running out of time. He needed a plan, a good one, and he needed it now.
What could he do about Loginov? The bastard was trying to sell secrets, probably plans to the R-7 rocket. He worked in propulsion and had access to the entire facility. Thus he would have to have a camera of some kind. But Ushakov hadn’t found it. He still had no evidence directly implicating Loginov in anything untoward, though he was a certain as he had ever been of the man’s guilt. There was simply no way to move on Loginov. The matter was infuriating.
He suspected that Loginov was to have made the handoff today. The young woman masquerading as a babushka was to have received the film, and had he not pressed Kalyugin to increase security he might have caught the pair as they exchanged the film. But he might have missed it, too, had he not just happened to be watching at the right moment. Perhaps he had not committed such a blunder after all. In any event, Loginov had been alerted and had not appeared at the mess tent, and the babushka had noticed the security at the gate and knew the drop was off. Or was it? Was it possible that Loginov had arranged to leave the film somewhere by the mess tent, a dead drop, and the babushka was to have retrieved it? He considered the possibility but rejected it. No, there had been nothing loaded onto the old man’s truck. Nobody had come close enough to the babushka to complete a pass. He had watched them the whole time. The film had to be on the facility still, and the babushka had gone to Kyzylorda to inform her handler that the pass had not been made. Yes, that was probably what had happened. Her handler had probably been expecting the film and she would have to inform him that the film had not yet been retrieved. But now what? Would the babushka return to try again, or would she scrub the entire operation?
Katia Bekturov…that would be Katerina Bekturov. Katia could be a derivative of Katrina, Katherine, possibly Kastanje or a few others, but those would be rare. He searched his memories for intelligence on any foreign operatives by that name but could not recall any that he had seen. That data w
ould not be present at the Facility, nor anyplace outside KGB headquarters at the Lubyanka, except possibly the Ministry of Internal Affairs. The lack of intelligence traffic was vexing, but he could not start sending telex messages without blowing the entire matter wide open and landing himself in serious trouble.
Whatever was to happen, it would be up to him. And if he was to survive the aftermath of this situation, he had to deliver the traitors. He had to have the matter wrapped up into a nice tight package to save himself—and to end the blundering of the idiot Kalyugin. He should very much like to see that one receive a quick trip to the Lubyanka for his indecision and dithering. Ushakov despised those qualities. The traitors absolutely must not escape him, or it would be himself instead of Kalyugin bound for a damp, stinking cell in the basement of the Lubyanka. He had to move quickly and carefully to avoid having the matter escalate out of his control.
He had to believe that professional espionage agents would not be so easily thwarted. He had to believe that any sharp agent would have a contingency plan in place, especially when the material was as valuable as this was. So the babushka would be returning, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day or the day after, but she would be returning to try again. Loginov would know this and wait. That gave Ushakov a little time, but only a little. Loginov must not be put on his guard any further. He must be made to believe that Ushakov did not suspect any more than he had a few days ago, and that meant that security must not be increased. Kalyugin must be kept out of the loop. The Director would make the wrong decision and blow the entire thing. But somehow he had to pick up Katia Bekturov!
Praporshchik Timofeev, that was the one he needed. The warrant officer was the de facto commander of the 217th, for the officers were lazy and left the business of running the battalion to him. That was the one he needed. Timofeev would be able to free up enough men to mount a roadblock ten kilometers east of the village to pick up the babushka when she returned with the truck, and he’d know how to keep a lid on things. Once he had the babushka on ice he could interrogate her at length, then pick up Loginov at his leisure. Loginov wasn’t going anywhere.
He picked up his telephone receiver and dialed.
Kyzylorda, Kazakhstan
The trip to Kyzylorda was nerve-wracking, for the weather cut visibility to perhaps ten feet and she had to proceed slowly. Yet the snow did not seem to be accumulating much. She was sure, though, if it kept on snowing like this there would be a foot or more by morning. By midnight she reached Kyzylorda, beginning to pass the rows of low warehouses that populated the outskirts of town. Cutting her lights, she turned off the main street and steered the truck slowly along the back ways towards the center of town. She parked in a dirty alley between a pair of abandoned office buildings a block away from the Post Office and switched the engine off. A stray dog appeared and snarled at her as she emerged from the warm cab, but she hissed at it and it slunk away. Drawing her scarf around her neck and holding her shawl over her head, she kept to the deep shadows as she made her way down the dark alley to the post office.
Beside the brick building, sheltered somewhat from the wind, she drew her lighter and lit herself a cigarette, flicking it exactly three times. This part of Kyzylorda was extremely dark and no lights shone in the windows above the shops, pubs and warehouses. There was a single streetlight down at one end of the street, and as she looked out from her vantage point beside the Post Office, its illumination was barely visible. She hoped feverishly that her handler was awake. He would have to meet her since the store that served as their usual meeting place was closed; he would know to look for her since this was an unexpected visit. So long as his receiver was turned on and he heard her signal, he should show up. She smoked too quickly and lit another one, flicking her lighter three times in succession. If her handler did not show up she would have to spend the night in one of these buildings, a prospect she did not relish.
On her third cigarette she heard a hiss behind her, and whirled to see a familiar drunk approaching through the deep shadows of the alley. She felt a surge of relief as he murmured, “You’re not supposed to be here until tomorrow. You’re lucky I was still awake. What’s going on?”
“There has been a development,” she murmured in reply. “I need advice.”
Her handler motioned her to follow him back through the alley. She did not know the man’s name, nor was she curious. They were anonymous to each other and would remain so. He led her on a serpentine path down alleys and up by-ways until he turned into the doorway of what appeared to be an abandoned apartment building a few blocks away from the Post Office. The building was empty and cold, the only light coming from a broken window at the end of a narrow, dusty hallway overlooking the street. In the darkness she followed him up a flight of cracking concrete steps to the third floor, down a corridor to a featureless, peeling apartment door.
He turned the key and entered. Following, she walked into a glow of yellow light from an oil lantern blazing on the dining table. There was a sofa, a chair, a room she presumed to be the bedroom, a bathroom, a wood stove, and not much else. The cracked plaster on the walls looked as if it had been new in the 1920’s and not touched since. Heavy blinds covered the apartment’s single window, keeping the light from showing out and raising suspicions. It smelled dirty, reeking of alcohol, tobacco and a stopped-up commode somewhere. On the table was a small briefcase with the cover sitting open, revealing a complicated suite of electronics inside. This was plugged into a wall outlet. The sophistication of the briefcase contrasted markedly with her handler’s dirty, disheveled appearance and it seemed odd, somehow, that such a disreputable-appearing man would be an expert in its use. Such was their occupation though; espionage was a business best conducted by those who didn’t appear capable of it.
“I have to keep that plugged in,” her handler remarked, removing his coat and noticing her interest in the briefcase, “it eats batteries. So I have to fix the electric meter every month so the power it uses doesn’t show up! It took me a while to find an apartment building that still had power at all.”
The stove was radiating a welcome heat and she shrugged off her wrap, laying it on the floor as she sat wearily on the sofa. “There’s a problem at the facility.”
He swept a mass of unkempt hair away from his face and sat facing her, his dark eyes fixed on hers. “What problem?”
She gathered her long, dark hair up and twisted it into a bun. “My contact was unable to make the pass and I don’t have the film. They’ve increased security there. I think they suspect something’s up but they aren’t really doing anything about it yet.”
“But you don’t think the operation is blown?” He sounded incredulous.
“No,” she replied calmly. “I think the contact means to wait and try again. I don’t think it’s blown yet.”
Her handler sat heavily in one of the chairs. “Well, now that poses a slight problem. The courier is on his way. He should be here by ten o’clock tomorrow morning or so. When do you think you will have the film?”
“I don’t know…I think my contact will try to get a message out soon.” Briefly she sketched out her visit to the base and described the KGB officer she had seen.
“Son of a bitch,” her handler exclaimed rudely. “That’s Lieutenant-Colonel Pavel Ushakov that made you. This operation’s blown.”
That was the name! Ushakov, some kind of KGB interrogator! “No it isn’t, not yet! He may have been suspicious but if he had identified me he would have arrested me. The KGB doesn’t know what’s happening, I’m sure of it. I still think we can get the film out.”
He stood and began folding up his briefcase. “Well, you may and you may not. I know about Ushakov from when he was in Moscow, and I never liked that he was here. He’s very clever and I think it’s more likely you’re going to get picked up. But my orders are clear. As soon as you’re here to handle to courier, I’m out of town. And you need to believe me, if Ushakov has gotten a sniff of this, the operation is blown
by any definition of the word.”
“I won’t accept that,” she exclaimed angrily. “It’s not blown yet. There’s still a chance and I mean to take it.”
“Go ahead. But I can’t help you. As long as you’re here I’m going to leave, so you can have this place as long as you need it.”
“What about the courier?” she asked in frustration. “Who is he? What do I do?”
“He’s flying in,” he replied. “What he’s flying I don’t know, I haven’t been told. There’s an abandoned airstrip south of town, a few kilometers from here. Take the left fork on the main road out of town, and it’s a couple kilometers away. He’ll be there around ten tomorrow morning. You better hope there isn’t too much snow or he’ll never find the place.”
“Such a bold plan,” she breathed, impressed. “This is a Russian pilot?”
“I don’t know,” he said shaking his head. “I would guess so.”
“But what am I to do with him? Leave him here? Take him with me?”
The man sighed. “Look. This was Kingfish’s operation. Kingfish did most of the planning for this. When Kingfish died I was ordered out, but I talked my superior into keeping the operation going. I told him I was willing to support you as long as you thought the operation was still good, but this is too much. In my judgment the operation is too far gone. Maybe, as you say, there’s still a chance. And there might be a better one if Kingfish was still alive to plan it. But without Kingfish I can’t stay.”
“Why?” she snapped furiously. “Because I’m not capable of running it?”
“Because you weren’t the planner, that’s why.” His voice was cold and quiet. “Now that the KGB is on alert at Baikonur, you have no way to communicate with the contact. How will you set up the drop?”
“There’s still a way,” she began, but he cut her off.
“No. I don’t want to know about it. The more people who know about something, the better the chances that everyone else will know about it too. If you’ve got a plan keep it to yourself. I can’t be a part of this anymore.”
A Cold Flight To Nowhereville Page 16