by Glenn Meade
“Your hands. Give them to me.”
Anna held out her hands, and Popov studied them. Then he reached over and gripped them painfully hard. He seemed to take pleasure as his big, strong fingers pressed cruelly into her flesh, as if he was trying to hurt her, but Anna only winced and didn’t cry out.
Popov grinned, then released his grip. “Good. You’ve known pain before. So what’s your background?”
Slanski said, “Massey said no questions, Dimitri.”
Popov turned to stare at him and spoke gruffly. “I need to know how much training she’s had. How much pain she can take.”
“I’ve had military training, if that’s what you mean,” Anna answered sharply.
Popov’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Which army?”
“Dimitri,” Slanski warned.
Popov stared back at him. “You realize as well as I do it’s important I know something of her background, considering what she might have to face when the time comes. I need to know what I’m working with.” He looked back at Anna. “Which army?”
“The Red Army.”
Popov frowned, an unpleasant look crossing his face before he grinned again and stroked his beard. “I guessed as much. So, we were once enemies. This should make for an interesting time. But I can tell you that such military experience will hardly help you. The Red Army is a rabble. Undisciplined. Unruly.”
Anger flared on Anna’s face. “Even at Stalingrad?”
Popov grinned. “First blood to you. Stalingrad is the exception.”
“And no doubt the SS were better?”
Popov heard the bitterness in Anna’s voice and glanced at Slanski before looking back at her. “So, you know something of me? As fighting men, the SS were infinitely better, believe me.”
“Except the Ukrainian SS. They were rapists and scum.”
Slanski looked at Popov, whose face turned red with fury. Slanski stood up to break the tension. “Let’s get this under way. Whenever you’re ready, Dimitri.”
Popov rose, pushing back his chair. “There’s still light outside. Let’s start with ways to kill.” He looked at Anna. “We’ll see who was scum. Go change.” He grinned at Slanski. “You know, I think I’m going to enjoy this.”
• • •
They were out behind the house, their breaths fogging in the freezing air, but the cold didn’t seem to bother Popov, who had removed his parka and sweater, and stood in his dirty vest. The smell from the man’s body was unpleasant, a mixture of stale sweat and wood smoke.
He faced them, his feet spread apart as he hitched up his trousers. “Okay. Basics first. To kill properly you need two things: determination and skill. Forget anger. It makes for mistakes and distracts you. You must be clearheaded about your purpose. Okay, without weapons first. Let’s start with you, Alex. Step forward.”
Slanski stepped forward.
“Give me your hands. Palms up,” commanded Popov. Slanski offered his hands. Popov grasped one, held it up, and splayed the fingers.
He looked at Anna. “Five fingers. Five simple but deadly weapons on each hand. You use them to gouge and poke out eyes. To strangle and choke. Then there’s your feet. And your head, but using that for anything other than thinking can be both painful and dangerous. Better to stick with the other parts—legs, hands, and feet. Okay, Alex, tell me how you can kill with your hands.”
Slanski’s hand touched a point behind Popov’s left ear and pressed. “Pressure points left and right sides of the neck where the veins carry blood to the brain. Depending on the amount of pressure applied, you can knock a man unconscious or kill him in five to ten seconds.”
“That’s assuming, of course,” said Popov, “you’ve got time. What if you haven’t? What if it must be done instantly? A sentry, perhaps? Someone you wish to silence without a sound and at once?”
Slanski showed his hand, gestured with the edge like a blade. “Side cut to the throat shatters the Adam’s apple.”
“And if you’re coming from behind?”
“The quick way is the side cut or punch to the pressure points.”
“But if it doesn’t kill him?”
“Stomp on his throat.”
“But if he’s still standing?”
“You get him down on the ground as quickly as possible. Crush his throat with your hand or foot.”
“Which part of the foot?”
“The heel is the strongest.”
“Okay, do it to me.”
Popov turned, offering his back. Slanski came up behind him and went to attack. As his hand came cutting through the air, Popov turned quick as lightning and grasped Slanski’s arm and twisted. Slanski didn’t scream even though the bone almost cracked. Popov released his grip and grinned. “First mistake. I’m surprised at you, Alex. You’ve grown rusty. Always anticipate. Always be ready for the unexpected. Anticipate that the guard is going to turn and look or to take a leak.”
He looked at Anna. “If the guard sees you, it can cost you your life, and worse, the lives of the others with you. Never expect things to happen as you plan them. In short, expect anything to happen. And when you’re making that kill, every sense must be alert. Not only the ones you’re using right now.”
He stepped back a little. “Now try it again.” He turned, offering his back again. Slanski came at him. As he was about to strike, Popov turned once again, but this time Slanski was ready. As Popov’s hand came around, Slanski grabbed it and twisted, at the same time bringing his knee up and halting it an inch from smashing Popov’s face, then his hand cut through the air and struck Popov a glancing blow on the neck.
It stunned the man but he was powerfully built, and as Slanski’s hand came down sharply to strike again Popov grunted and wrenched free, his hand grabbing Slanski’s hair, wrenching it back painfully from the scalp.
“Better. But not quite good enough. You would have killed me, but not silently. We’ll improve on it. Remember, always anticipate. The SS trained their men to expect everything.” He looked at Anna and grinned. “And now you. Step forward please, madam.”
There was something in the way Popov said “madam” that was almost goading. Anna took two steps forward. The grin behind the Ukrainian’s beard widened. “With women,” Popov said dismissively, “it’s even more difficult. They haven’t got the natural strength a man has. But even nature’s weaklings can be taught technique. Remember, always anticipate and react. And it must be quick, or your life gets snuffed out. Got it?”
“I think so.”
“We’ll see. Okay, the same again. Remember what you saw Alex do. Come at me from behind.”
Popov turned again, showing Anna his back. There was a swishing sound, and Popov felt the force of the kick as a foot slammed hard between his legs. He vomited as he went down, his face turning purple as his hands went to cover his groin.
At the same time Anna came around in front of him. Her hand sliced through the air and hit Popov a glancing blow to the side of the neck as he pitched forward. As Popov writhed in pain, Slanski saw the barely concealed smile on Anna’s face, and then it was gone, her face deathly serious as she looked back at him.
“His first mistake. He didn’t heed his own advice to anticipate. That’s the sign of a poor instructor.”
Slanski grinned. “I’d have to agree. What’s the idea, are you trying to kill him?”
“There are many ways to stop a bear. The Mongolian troops I served with at Stalingrad taught me that. That’s how they’ve silenced a sentry since the time of Genghis Khan. A hard, sharp kick between the legs to a man’s most vulnerable spot. The pain is so intense he can’t scream or cry out even if he wants to. He goes dumb with shock. Then you kill him.”
Slanski smiled over at Popov squirming on the ground. “I think you’ve made your point.”
“Then tell him for me I hope the rest of the training is better. And remind him a good instructor should always practice what he preaches. Tell him that. I’ll be inside when your friend has recove
red.”
Slanski watched as she turned and went back up to the house. He saw Popov try to struggle to his feet, cross-eyed with pain as he moaned.
Slanski laughed and lit a cigarette. “I guess she’s better than you thought, Dimitri.”
MOSCOW
FEBRUARY 12
It was almost noon when the Finnish DC-3 carrying Henri Lebel landed at Vnukovo Airport. Situated seventeen miles southwest of Moscow, Vnukovo served as the city’s main civilian airport, but it was also a military air base, ringed by a high-security fence and guarded by a battalion of crack paratroops.
Lebel remained quietly in his seat long after the aircraft had taxied to a halt. Only a dozen passengers were on board that Thursday morning, and among them Lebel recognized several faces he had seen before on Moscow flights—two prominent Dutch diamond merchants, a German oil magnate, and a minor Finnish Embassy official. They all waited patiently in their seats, frequent visitors to Moscow who knew the drill that was to follow.
Lebel glanced out of the window and saw an Emka car drive the short distance across the snowy tarmac to the plane. He noticed that, as always, few Western aircraft were on the aprons.
The Emka halted below on the apron, and the two passengers climbed out and came up the metal stairway. The procedure was always the same. The two men were KGB, and they came on board but remained at the door. Before the passengers were allowed to disembark, the Finnish stewardesses went through the cabin removing any Western newspapers and magazines and storing them in a locked cabinet in case anyone was tempted to take one. Lebel and the passengers were finally led across the snowy tarmac to the terminal by one of the KGB men. Inside, two more men were waiting, standing beside a long metal table, where the passengers’ bags would be examined.
Lebel identified his bag from a trolley, and the man opened it and thoroughly examined the contents. When he had finished, he indicated for Lebel to move to another official sitting nearby, waiting to check passports. The man, whom Lebel knew from previous visits, was KGB. He examined the passport along with the official document declaring Lebel an honorary Soviet citizen, then stamped the passport and handed it back without a flicker of recognition.
A Zis and a driver were waiting, as usual, for since his outburst years before the Ministry of Foreign Trade had treated Lebel royally. When he stepped inside it drew away from the curb.
• • •
Lebel liked the cosmopolitan, noisy atmosphere of Moscow—there were Russians, Slavs, Mongolians, lots of Chinese, and a hundred other ethnic faces. It reminded him a little of New York, except that it was slower, colder, there were no really excellent restaurants, and it was much more drab.
But nothing could have been drabber than Moscow’s hotels. Only four in the capital were used for foreign visitors, and the best by far was the Moskva on Marx Prospect, with a grand frontage and a summer café terrace that overlooked the Kremlin. The Moskva was the chief hotel assigned to important visiting foreigners and dignitaries. Lebel used it as his office, although he already had an official bureau assigned to him with a staff of three Ministry of Foreign Trade employees, situated near the Arbat. It was a dowdy two-room place he avoided as much as possible.
As the Zis pulled up outside the hotel, a uniformed militiaman was on duty at the entrance, wearing a long blue overcoat with red and white tabs. Lebel told the man from the ministry he wouldn’t need him or the car until the next morning at nine—he had a meeting to discuss his next shipment—and the Zis drove off.
Whenever Lebel stepped into the Moskva it reminded him of a magnificent, if somewhat dismal, palace. Vast, with miles of deserted polished marble halls and glittering chandeliers, it still gave a bleak impression—there was no flower shop or newspaper stand, no concierge, and not a uniformed bellboy in sight. Guests were expected to carry their own bags.
Lebel went to check in. At the far end of the desk the clerk was busy talking with two men, both in civilian clothes, who were riffling through some index cards. One of them had a gloved false hand, and the other was a squat Mongol with slit eyes. The two men glanced briefly at Lebel, then went back to their discussion with the clerk. When after a long delay the clerk finally came to attend to him, he handed over Lebel’s room key—always for the same suite on the fourth floor—but did not ask to see a passport. That was up to the office known as the Service Bureau, across the hall, which was in reality the KGB’s office in the hotel.
When he had finished checking in, Lebel carried his bag across to a glass-fronted door.
He saw a woman seated behind a desk smile and gesture for him to enter.
“Back for more sable or just the sinful delights of Moscow, Henri?”
Lebel knew the woman well. She had once worked at the Trade Ministry and spoke six languages, all fluently. Lebel smiled. “Wild horses can’t keep me away.”
The woman took out a batch of forms and began filling them in. “How long’s your stay?”
“Two nights.”
“Tickets for the opera, the ballet?”
“Not this time, Larissa. I’ve a busy schedule.” Lebel handed over his passport and document of citizenship, and the woman placed them in a metal tray that would go in the office safe until his departure.
“Any foreign currency? Valuables?” the woman inquired.
“No valuables, but I’ve got five hundred US dollars in cash. The same in Finnish marks.”
Like all visitors and citizens, Lebel was not allowed to carry foreign currency, only rubles. He removed the money from his wallet, handed it across, and said playfully, “All for you, my sweet Larissa, if you’d let me take you out to dinner.”
The woman frowned, and Lebel said, “It’s only a joke.”
“Don’t joke, Henri. The duty officer’s around, doing his usual check on arriving visitors. He might come back and overhear and get the wrong impression.”
Lebel had come to know most of the Service Bureau personnel but had never gotten used to Russian paranoia and their fear of authority. “Who’s on duty this time?”
“A Major Lukin. You haven’t met him before and he’s only filling in. But he shouldn’t keep you long. He and a comrade just left the office to check the register.”
Every foreign visitor had to have his passport checked and registered by the KGB 2nd Directorate officer on duty in the Service Bureau. Performing such duties, the KGB men always wore civilian clothes. All guests from abroad, important or not, were their responsibility. Lebel knew he had nothing to fear. His document of honorary citizenship meant it would be merely a perfunctory check. But this time, knowing what he had to discuss with Irena, he felt a little nervous. He watched as the woman counted out the dollars and marks, filled in a form, then put the bills in the tray alongside the passport and had Lebel sign for both.
The door opened, and the two men Lebel had seen chatting with the desk clerk came in.
“M. Lebel? My name is Lukin, and this is Comrade Kokunko.” The man with the leather glove extended his good hand and shook Lebel’s. The Mongol said nothing, just stared at him, which made Lebel feel distinctly uncomfortable.
“How do you do?” Lebel answered.
“Just a short visit this time, I believe?” Lukin said.
“I have a meeting with the Ministry of Foreign Trade tomorrow morning. I think you’ll find everything is in order.”
“I’m sure it is.” Lukin held out his hand to the woman. “May I see M. Lebel’s passport, Larissa?”
The woman handed it across, along with the document of citizenship. The major studied both, then held up Lebel’s document. “You have honorary citizenship, I see. We don’t come across too many of these.”
“I do a lot of important business in Moscow. I’m a fur dealer and have an office here. I’m going to arrange a shipment of sable.”
For some odd reason, even though the major seemed polite enough, the man made Lebel feel uneasy. He put it down to his own conscience, knowing what he was really in Moscow to do, and he tri
ed hard to appear calm. In another two hours he would hopefully be out on the streets of Moscow, going through his well-rehearsed routine of checking to make sure he had not been followed, before he carefully made his way to Irena’s dacha. He was desperately looking forward to seeing her again, and excited by the prospect of their future freedom together. But out of nervousness, he seemed to be explaining too much to Lukin.
The major was watching his face. He seemed an intelligent sort, with eyes that looked at you intently, as if pressing you to fill the void and talk. His Mongol colleague also just stood there. Lebel had the feeling that the major was suspicious of something. He checked himself, stared back at Lukin, and said nothing more.
Finally, the major handed back the passport and document to the woman and said politely, “Enjoy your stay in Moscow, M. Lebel. I hope your business goes well.”
“I’m certain it will.”
NEW YORK
FEBRUARY 19, 5 P.M.
In the tenth-floor office of the Soviet Mission in the United Nations building in Manhattan that late afternoon, Feliks Arkashin stood hunched over the half dozen black-and-white photographs and frowned as he scratched the mole on his jaw.
He turned to the man standing beside him and said, “You’re certain about this, Yegeni?”
Yegeni Oramov was small and thin and wore thick black spectacles. He had the look of a distracted professor about him, wild tufts of wiry black hair sprouting from his head, but despite his appearance he held the rank of KGB captain in the New York Soviet Mission. “Certain as we can be. I had the photo prints checked out with our people here and in Europe. It definitely looks like the man named Massey.”
“Tell me about him.”
“That’s not the only name he uses. He has many aliases. But we know he runs the Munich CIA operations office. Apparently he’s been a thorn in our side for a long time. The question is, what do we do about it?”
Arkashin shook his head. “The question surely is what he’s doing with the woman, Anna Khorev.”
Oramov smiled. “That’s where our station in Helsinki comes in. I checked through the file you gave me, the one on the woman. Then I had some copies of these photographs sent to Helsinki in one of our diplomatic bags. We think Massey was present when our people interviewed her. Colonel Romulka’s aide remembers him, and the description would seem to fit. Also, our man who watched her at Helsinki airport saw the photographs and thinks Massey was with the Americans who escorted her to the plane.”