by Glenn Meade
“What about the second man?”
Oramov smiled. “Now that’s where it gets even more interesting. We’re not a hundred percent sure, but we think it’s a man named Alex Slanski.”
Arkashin said, “The Alex Slanski? The one they call ‘the Wolf’?”
Oramov nodded. “The same. Moscow has a price on his head, as you know. We’ve wanted him a long time. Remember Grenady Kraskin, who got hit in East Berlin over two months ago? We think Slanski did it.”
Feliks Arkashin stepped toward the window and rubbed his fleshy face. Beyond the glass lay East Sixty-Seventh Street with its cluttered chaos of traffic, and to the west, Central Park. He always considered the situation in America’s commercial capital to be ridiculous, and the Americans tolerant fools. Under cover of the Soviet trade mission, consulate, or news agencies, and sealed off from the other parts of the UN mission and with their own independent communications to Moscow, their files immune from search and with reasonable ability to move freely about New York, KGB branch chiefs and their officers went about their daily business as if they were working in Moscow headquarters itself. Crazy, but it worked to their advantage.
For several moments Arkashin was deep in thought, then turned to his visitor and said, “You can go now, Yegeni. Leave the photographs. Well done.”
The man left and Arkashin lit a cigarette. Yegeni Oramov had supplied him with the confirmation he needed of Braun’s latest report. He stood a moment before he crossed back to his desk. He picked up the internal telephone and dialed a three-digit number to his superior’s office.
As he waited for the other end to answer he glanced over at the portrait of Joseph Stalin on the wall above his desk. The face stared down at him, a wry smile on the lips. Arkashin shivered. The line clicked. “Leonid? Arkashin here. Can I disturb you? This won’t take a minute. Something’s come up and I’d like your opinion.”
• • •
Leonid Kislov was a stout man in his late fifties who chain-smoked four packs of American cigarettes a day. As senior KGB station officer in the New York Mission, with the rank of colonel, he had a lot of worries, not least of which were a duodenal ulcer and a fiery Georgian wife who harried him constantly. That morning he was in a foul mood, his ulcer playing up, and as he gestured for Arkashin to sit he said, “Make it quick, Feliks, I’ve got a meeting with the ambassador in half an hour.”
“Problems?” Arkashin asked sympathetically.
Kislov burped and rubbed his chest before he slipped a couple of tablets from a glass bottle and reached for a glass of water on his desk. “There are always problems.” He swallowed the ulcer tablets and sipped the water. “Washington is up the ambassador’s nose again over the matter of the Jewish doctors. They want to know what’s going on.”
“What will he tell them?”
“That it’s none of their bloody business.” Kislov grinned. “But politely of course. That’s what diplomacy is all about. Just as well they don’t know what else is going on. They’d have a fit. But let them go to blazes, I say. Their day’s going to come, and sooner than we all think.”
“Anything you’d care to tell me?”
Kislov looked across sternly. “It’s none of your business, either, comrade. But I’ll slip you a little hint. If things go according to plan we won’t be here in another six months. This hydrogen project of ours is almost complete. There’s a plan to evacuate us before the trouble starts. And start it will, you can be sure of that.”
Arkashin went slightly pale. “You mean Stalin’s almost ready to start a war?”
Kislov grinned. “As I said, it’s not your business.” He tapped a cigarette from the pack on his desk and lit it, glanced at his watch, and said gruffly, “What did you want to see me about?”
Arkashin explained about the photographs and the woman as he laid the shots on the table and Kislov examined them. The grainy photographs were taken from a distance and rather clumsily, too.
“These images are lousy,” commented Kislov.
Arkashin half smiled. “True. But Lombardi’s men are not trained photographers, and they couldn’t risk getting too close in case they were spotted. Still, we’re as sure as we can be that the two men in the shots are Massey and Slanski.”
Kislov knew about the woman, but up to now he hadn’t been interested in the details and preferred to let Arkashin get on with it. But now he leaned forward and drew on his cigarette.
“Interesting.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“But it hardly matters in the overall scheme of things, does it? Why Moscow wastes its time on piffling matters such as this is beyond me.”
“As you know, Colonel Romulka has taken a personal interest in the woman’s case.” Arkashin smiled faintly. “Apparently she made quite an impression when she met him in Helsinki. There’s more to it than that, of course, but no doubt Romulka wants his pound of flesh. And with respect, Leonid, I’d hardly call the Wolf a ‘piffling matter.’ He’s been a scourge for quite some time.”
Kislov sighed. “I suppose you’d better fill me in on what’s been happening.”
“We’re using Lombardi to watch the woman, of course, but Braun’s acting as the link.”
“Braun? That animal?”
“Even an animal has its uses. That’s why we brought him here as an illegal. He’s so adept at killing troublesome émigrés.”
“I’m aware of that. So what do you propose?”
“Something tells me Massey is up to something. And with this Slanski in the picture it might suggest Massey perhaps has an agent drop in mind. Maybe even using the girl. She’d be an ideal choice, considering she knows our country.”
Kislov shrugged his bulky shoulders. “Possible, but speculative. So why come to me?”
“We have three choices. One, take out the woman, as we intended. Two, take her out and kill Massey and Slanski in the process as a bonus. Or three, we keep tailing them and see what they’re up to. If it’s a drop Massey intends, we could try to find out where and when and take them when they land on Soviet soil.”
Kislov sat farther back in his chair and thought for a moment, then drew on his cigarette. Finally he shook his head. “The second option is not the best way to go, and the third is risky and speculative. We may not be able to discover when or where they’re going to drop, if that’s what’s happening. The first seems the best choice, and besides, it’s what Moscow ordered.” He frowned. “You never told me how you know where these people are—Massey, Slanski, the woman.”
Arkashin smiled. “Simple really. Lombardi had a couple of his men follow Massey and the woman when they took a train to Boston. They were met there by this man—Slanski.” Arkashin pointed to a grainy photograph taken at Boston railway station of Massey shaking hands with Slanski, Anna Khorev beside them. “The woman had a suitcase with her,” Arkashin went on, “so it’s likely she was going to stay somewhere. Lombardi’s men followed the three of them out of the station but lost them after they drove off in a vehicle driven by the man we think is Slanski. But they got the license number—a New Hampshire registration—and had it checked out. It’s registered to an address at a place called Kingdom Lake in New Hampshire. It’s remote, out of the way. I’m hoping it’s where we’ll find Slanski and the others.”
“Go on,” prompted Kislov.
“Curious, but the terrain around there is not unlike Russia. It would seem an ideal place for mission training if Massey is planning a drop.”
Kislov nodded. “Anything else?”
Arkashin half smiled. “There’s a Soviet cargo ship due in New York docks in five days, which rather suits us if things go the way I plan. I’ll need you to authorize a dollar payment for Lombardi if we’re to go ahead with the woman’s abduction.”
“Can Lombardi be trusted with such a delicate matter as this?”
Arkashin grinned. “He’s as shifty as a sewer rat, but a true capitalist who’ll do anything for money. Besides, he’s not averse to kill
ing.”
“Surely Lombardi won’t get involved in this personally. He’ll want to leave it to his men.”
“I’ll insist that he does, considering what we’ll pay him. I don’t want this business botched.”
Kislov thought a moment. “Could Braun and Lombardi make the deaths of Massey and Slanski look like accidents? So that the Americans can’t come back at us?”
“It could be arranged, I’m certain.”
Kislov grinned slightly. “Then perhaps your second option was best after all. There could be promotion in this for both of us.”
Arkashin smiled back. “That’s what I thought.”
“But just remember, the woman is the priority. It’s her we want. It’s fine if Massey and Slanski are there when we take her, we can deal with them. But if not, just make sure you get the woman. And tell your people to be careful. By all accounts this Wolf is a dangerous proposition.”
NEW HAMPSHIRE
Popov had recovered, and the following days had been spent on weapons training. He didn’t reproach Anna, but Slanski saw the blaze of anger in the Ukrainian’s eyes every time he looked at her. The man was earning his money the hard way.
A light snow had begun falling early that afternoon. It covered the forest and land in a sprinkling of white. They spent an hour examining Soviet weapons Popov had laid out on the table in the front room.
“Some of these you may meet on your travels, so it’s important you know what you’re up against and how to use them if you have to.” He picked up the first weapon. “Kalashnikov assault rifle,” he said. “Not really a rifle at all, but a machine pistol and rifle combined. It can fire semiautomatic or automatic bursts. Designed by an NCO in the Red Army by the same name in 1947. That’s how it got its model number—AK-47. It fires 7.62 ammunition. An excellent weapon, I have to admit. Hardly ever jams and you can throw it in the mud and dance on it and it will still fire.”
Popov put it down and picked up another weapon with a drum magazine. “PPSh machine gun. Standard issue to Soviet NCOs during the war. Reliable, but it’s inaccurate and fires too fast. Steel-pressed parts. It’s still in use in all countries behind the Iron Curtain. Fine if you’re up close to a kill or need to spray a room at speed, but otherwise a waste of time.”
He replaced it and selected another. “And now for the crème de la crème. German MP40 machine pistol, sometimes mistakenly called the Schmeisser. The Soviets captured thousands of them from the Germans. The Reds even preferred this weapon to their own models during the war. They’ve armed some of the militia with the MP40 in Soviet Bloc countries until they’re replaced with the latest Soviet arms. A lethal weapon, way ahead of its time. Nine-millimeter Parabellum shells, thirty-two rounds in a magazine. Better accuracy than any of the others you’ve seen, in my opinion.”
Popov put down the German machine pistol and turned to a couple of handguns. “Only two that should really concern you. The Tokarev TT-33 automatic pistol and the Nagant revolver. Both reasonably accurate and reliable. The shortcomings of the Tokarev are it’s an awkward design and badly finished. The Nagant is really a Belgian weapon, but the Soviets manufactured a direct copy. It’s a good, solid, dependable revolver.”
Popov looked up at Anna. “Pick them up. Handle them. Feel the weight and get used to the mechanical action. You, too, Alex. You can never have enough practice. Then outside in the woods in ten minutes.”
• • •
Anna had begun to feel fit again. The running through the woods and the excruciating exercises had toned her body, and she felt more alive than she had in a long time. Slanski had covered the rudiments of parachuting, and he and Popov had rigged up a basic training drop to teach her how to land properly. The entire regime had given her little time to be alone and think, her mind preoccupied during the days by what she was doing and her body at night by a haze of sleepy exhaustion.
It was snowing on the second to last day of training, and when they had finished supper and Slanski and Vassily had cleared away the plates Anna threw her coat over her shoulders, left the cabin, and walked down to the lake. Minutes later she heard the voice behind her and turned.
Popov came down to stand beside the water. He looked over at her. “So, we only have another day together. No doubt you’re happy to see me go. But I hope you’ve learned enough to save your life in an awkward situation.”
She looked at him coldly. “Are you worried about me, Popov?”
He grinned in the darkness. “I always worry about my pupils. But it’s up to them to take as they will of what I teach them. Either they learn enough to survive or they don’t and they’re dead.” He hesitated. “When did you escape?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business. And who says I escaped?”
Popov grinned. “How else could you have got out of Russia? Still, I wouldn’t like to see a woman as pretty as yourself caught by the Reds, if that’s the case. You know what they would do to you?”
“I can imagine. Now why don’t you leave me alone.”
“Believe me, if they caught you, rape would be the mildest thing. Then torture. After that, death would be a welcome companion. And with the KGB, that usually happens slowly.”
“Are you trying to frighten me, Popov?”
The grin behind the beard widened. “I doubt that’s possible. I’m just making sure you know what to expect. You have better nerves than most men I’ve trained.” He crushed his cigarette under his boot. “But whatever you’re going to do, I hope it hurts the Reds. Good night.”
He stared at her before he turned and walked back up to the cabin.
As she stood looking out at the darkened lake she heard the voice: “Nice conversation.”
Anna turned. Slanski stood in the shadows, smoking a cigarette; she saw the glow from the tip of his cigarette before she saw him. He strolled down to stand beside her. “He’s not as bad as he looks or sounds.”
“If you say so.”
“You don’t like Popov much, do you?”
“No.”
“What you learned from him could save your life, remember that.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to like him.”
Slanski smiled. “I guess not.” He flicked away his cigarette and it cartwheeled into the lake. “Tomorrow I’ll take you into Concord. There’s a hotel, it’s not up to much, but the cooking’s better than Vassily’s. And there’s a dance during dinner.”
She looked at him, surprised. “Why should you take me there?”
“No reason, except maybe you deserve it after all your hard work. And besides, as you said, maybe it’s time we started to act like man and wife. Massey’s going to be back tomorrow night to go over some final things, so we haven’t much more time to get to know one another.” He went to turn, but hesitated. “Wear a dress tomorrow night if you have one.”
She hesitated. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Going into Russia. What’s your motive?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I think maybe you volunteered. And happy men don’t volunteer.”
Slanski looked up at the night sky, then back at her. “None of your business, I’m afraid. Just as yours is none of mine. You’d better get back to the house soon. You’ll catch your death out here.”
He turned without another word and walked back up to the cabin.
• • •
As he sat in his bedroom Slanski heard Anna come in ten minutes later and climb the stairs. He heard her wash and undress and then the creak of springs as she climbed into bed. The house went silent again, except for Popov’s snoring down the hall.
He crossed to the corner of the bedroom. Hunching down near the window, he took out his penknife and flicked open the blade. He slipped the blade between the two short wooden floorboards and pried. The wood gave easily, and he removed the two foot-long sections. He put his hand into the recess and removed the old rusting biscuit tin, and beneath it, the single
manila file Massey had given him to study.
This had been his childhood hiding place when he first came to the cabin. He had trusted no one then, not even Vassily. It had once hidden the only possessions he had brought with him to America as a boy.
Now Slanski opened the file on Joseph Stalin and read through it again. It contained only the information Massey had said and no details of the mission. Stalin’s habits, information on his health, his personal security arrangements, and particulars of his elite bodyguard. The entire bodyguard system comprised almost fifty thousand people, dedicated to his protection and divided into departments according to their expertise: Stalin’s transport, his food, his health, his physical protection, his entertainment.
Every morsel he ate was produced on special farms, rigidly controlled by the Guards Directorate, which supervised the growing of foodstuffs and the slaughtering of animals, and then transported these supplies along guarded routes to its own storehouses. And even then the food was laboratory-tested and fed to test animals, as well as to Stalin’s personal staff, before being consumed by Stalin himself.
The file also contained two detailed maps, one of the Kremlin and Stalin’s personal quarters, and another of his Kuntsevo villa with information on its security system.
Before the drop Slanski would commit every word and detail to memory. When he had finished studying the file he replaced it in the recess in the floor.
He picked up the rusted biscuit tin, opened it, and removed the contents. Two locks of hair tied neatly with red binding thread and a small photograph album, its black lacquered cover cracked and worn.
Slanski remembered how he had clutched them both for months after his escape, clutched them hard to his chest, especially during the long, cold journey across the tossing Atlantic swells, hidden in the hold of the stinking boat, hunger in his stomach like a pain but not as bad as the terrible pain in his heart, what was in that little box the only tangible reminder of his family. It offered a small lost boy the only sanity in the whole wide, confused world.