‘I think you’re too fucking honest for the stupid machine.’
‘You mean you believe me?’
‘Welcome to America,’ said Bowden.
‘Thank you,’ said Levin. It would be natural to let the relief show and he did.
‘There’s one thing,’ said Bowden.
‘What?’
‘You shouldn’t have lied about masturbation,’ smiled Bowden. ‘Everybody jerks off. Everybody lies about it, too.’
Sergei Kapalet was a classic KGB emplacement within a Soviet legation in a Western capital. Holding the rank of colonel within the service, he was described upon the French diplomatic list as a driver at the Soviet Embassy in Paris. It was a position low enough to be ignored by French counter-intelligence yet one that gave him the excuse and the facility to drive at will around the city. Which he had done constantly since his posting eighteen months earlier, preparing for this small but essential part in the most destructive operation ever devised by the KGB against the CIA. His job was to insert a few pieces into the whole of a very complicated jigsaw. For him to have known all the details would have put at risk the entire operation if he were detected as an intelligence operative, to avoid which was the purpose of the rehearsals. Kapalet drove and drove and drove again around the arrondissements of the city – amusing himself by going first around Le Kremlin area – until he was familiar with every avenue and boulevard. And during every journey he was alert for surveillance which would have warned him he was suspected by the French. It never happened. A superbly trained operative, Kapalet did not rely solely upon a car, but became an expert on the metro as well, journeying as far as Mairie des Lilas and Eglise de Pantin and Pont de Levallois Becon and memorizing all the transfer stations in between, again, all the time, trying to spot any pursuit. There wasn’t any here, either.
He initiated the approach to the Americans during the third month of his posting, while officially on duty as the driver he was supposed to be at a reception at the West German embassy. The Americans were initially extremely cautious, which professionally he admired, so it was not until a further three months that he was accepted and given a case officer. The man was a black New Yorker whose name Kapalet knew, from KGB files, to be Wilson Drew even before the CIA man introduced himself. The American was given to three-piece suits, French wine and jazz, which made for convenient rendezvous. Together – although not obviously – they went to the Slow Club and the Caveau de la Montagne and Le Petit Journal.
The legend had been carefully prepared and rehearsed in Moscow. Kapalet’s motivation was supposed to be entirely financial, to support a decadent Western lifestyle to which he had become addicted, and so as well as jazz clubs they went to the Crazy Horse Saloon and the Moulin Rouge and the Lido and La Coupole and New Jimmy’s.
The information that Kapalet passed over was as carefully selected as everything else, guaranteed always to be absolutely accurate. And provably so. Over the months Kapalet disclosed Soviet finance to a peace movement protesting against US missile bases in Europe and denounced a minor official in the French foreign ministry who was being run by the Paris rezidentura after being shown photographs of himself, naked apart from his socks, with two teenage prostitutes in a brothel off the Boulevard Saint Germain. The brothel was financed by the KGB as well, specifically to obtain incriminating material for blackmail purposes and Kapalet revealed that, too. Every disclosure was authorized by Vladislav Belov, in Moscow, each sacrifice considered justified for the success of the ultimate plan.
The contact procedure for the two to meet was for Kapalet to insert a bicycle For Sale notice in the window display of a small tobacconists’ shop off the Rue Saint Giles, the venue having been decided between them at the previous encounter. That night it was to be at the Brasserie Flo, on the Cour des Petites Ecuries.
Kapalet was as cautious as ever, going by metro and arriving early but not entering the restaurant, instead positioning himself to see Drew arrive first to ensure the American was not being followed either, so risking discovery by association.
The CIA man had been equally careful in his choice of table, at the rear, near the unpopular noise of the kitchen entry and exit. It would provide a cover for their conversation.
Drew deferred to the Russian for the drinks. Kapalet ordered kir and a 1980 Hermitage la Chapelle and they both chose venison.
‘Hope the information is as good as the wine,’ said Drew. He was a big, heavily muscled man who had boxed heavyweight at college.
‘I am not sure what it is,’ said Kapalet. ‘There’s just been a transfer to the rezidentura here, from Washington.’ Like everything else, that was true. Kapalet knew that the Americans monitored movements and would already be aware of it. The man’s name was Shelenkov.
‘What about him?’
‘He drinks.’ That was also true and the Americans would know that, as well.
‘So what?’
‘He was boasting in the mess, three nights ago. Said he had your people by the balls. Those were his words: he likes to show off his Americanisms.’
Drew was eating slowly but concentrating upon the conversation, not the food. ‘Had us by the balls?’
‘That’s what he said.’
‘What’s he mean by “us”? The Agency? Or America?’
‘I thought you’d want to know that. So I manoeuvred the conversation. It’s the Agency.’
Drew pushed his plate away, as if he were suddenly sickened. ‘Son of a bitch!’ he said.
‘Well, is the information as good as the wine?’ It was important always to try to drive up the price.
Drew ignored the question. ‘Who? I need a name.’
‘Come on!’ said Kapalet. ‘Do you imagine I was going to come straight out and ask him? Or that he would have told me, if I had?’
‘Listen, Sergei. Listen good. You get this for me – get anything and everything you can for me – and you can name your own price. We’ll keep you in Roederer Cristal for life. You understand me?’
‘I understand,’ said the Russian.
An hour later the first alert reached Langley that they had a spy within the CIA headquarters. Such information is automatically classified red priority, so the Director was awakened at his Georgetown home.
‘Son of a bitch!’ he said, unwittingly echoing his agent.
‘What’s the matter?’ said his drowsy wife.
‘For fuck’s sake, shut up!’ said the distressed man.
13
Vladislav Belov finally decided it was time to shift allegiance. Not openly of course. Rather to begin to move away from someone certainly in personal decline and arguably in mental decline, as well. Someone, therefore, through whom there was the risk of being carried down in the whirlpool he’d thought about before. Maybe the suck of dirty water going down a plughole was a better analogy. More had become common knowledge now, carefully distributed by the GRU, for Belov to know that Kazin’s failure to respond quickly enough to the Afghanistan insanity had risked an unthinkable disaster. Just as the maniac had endangered years of careful planning by signalling Levin prematurely, while his child was still in Moscow. That had actually been the greatest insanity, knowingly creating a situation in which Levin might not have gone at all. So maniac was certainly the right word. And maniacs had to be avoided if they weren’t removed altogether: it was unfortunate the inquiry had merely censured the man, rather than getting rid of him completely. Definitely the time to move away. And now, luckily, the opportunity had presented itself. He knew he’d have to be careful, as careful as he had been in formulating the proposal that was going to disrupt the CIA with festering suspicion, as British intelligence had been disrupted by the festering suspicions left over from the time of Burgess and Maclean, Philby and Blunt. But he was sure he could do it.
Personally interviewing Yuri Malik, rather than deputing a subordinate, showed just how careful. There would be no indication of favouritism, because of who his father was, nor any preference instructions
sent ahead to New York. That would be too heavy footed. At the beginning, protective association in Dzerzhinsky Square began with nuance and suggestion. But Vasili Malik would recognize it, when his son reported back that he had been briefed by the division head himself. And Belov was confident that the very fact of his being head of the division to which Malik’s son was going to be attached would automatically result in more contact between the joint Chief Deputy and himself. Having initiated the approach by conducting this meeting, the pace had in future to be dictated by Malik, a reciprocal invitation for him to respond. Which he would. But very carefully, very slowly, very safely. Belov had moved too quickly, far too quickly, coming out as a Kazin supporter in the past. He had no intention of making the same mistake twice.
‘There is no way we can determine the supposed function that will be assigned you at the United Nations,’ began Belov. ‘That is the decision of the secretariat of the Secretary General. We have people in that secretariat, of course. So I will exert as much pressure as possible to ensure a position giving you the greatest opportunity to fulfil your proper role.’
‘I understand, Comrade Director,’ said Yuri.
Belov liked the other man. And decided he would have done so without the family connection. Certainly the appearance and demeanour were perfect for a New York posting. There was not a vestige of any Slavic colouring, no dumplings-and-black-bread heaviness. He was clear-eyed and clear-skinned and the fair hair was perfectly cropped to suggest the recent change from the sort of crew cut that seemed inevitable in American college graduation pictures. The man would be able to move around America, under the cover about to be explained to him, and never once appear different from anyone else beside him on the train or plane or street. The attitude was right, too: respectful but not cowed. Confident, like Americans were at his age. Belov said: ‘There’s been a defection from our United Nations rezidentura.’
‘Yes,’ said Yuri.
Belov waited but the younger man did not continue. ‘Because of which some of our people will inevitably be identified.’ Dolya, of course. And two others – Onukhov and Lubiako – whom it had been decided Levin was to name to substantiate his defection. There would have to be some token punishment against Dolya, because the man would have been punished if the crossing were genuine, but Belov intended to be as lenient as possible. He picked up: ‘The new head of station is Anatoli Stepanovich Granov. He has been attached to the New York mission for two years. He has already been advised what you are to do.’
‘A special function?’ queried Yuri. To which faction was this man attaching himself? His father’s? Or Kazin’s? Important to be ultra-cautious until he was sure of the answer. If his father were to be believed he was as much a target as the old man. Why, wondered Yuri, in recurring, intrusive irritation, wouldn’t his father tell him what had happened between himself and Kazin? It appeared there would always be some connection between them.
‘You are to be the courier,’ declared Belov. Surely the most positive indication to the joint Chief Deputy which way he was declaring himself! To be courier was to occupy a position of great trust and responsibility.
‘I would like that explained to me,’ said Yuri curiously. In ancient Rome couriers of bad news were put to death.
‘The FBI are aware how we use the United Nations,’ expanded Belov. ‘They’d be fools if they didn’t. They spy on us as much as they can, electronically, and we are not prepared completely to trust the diplomatic pouch. Which is why we have a courier personally to ferry the most highly classified material. It was formerly the function of Granov, before his promotion to rezident.’
‘Surely it’s not possible for me to move in and out of America at will!’ queried Yuri at once. ‘I’d be detected after the first trip.’
‘Of course you would,’ agreed Belov. ‘There is an apartment block on the corner of Second Avenue and 53rd Street. Flat 415 is rented permanently in the name of a publishing company which has provable headquarters in Amsterdam. You will be provided with a bona fide British passport – an American document could be too easily checked – in which you will be described as a travel writer. Your legend name is William Bell. We issue four publications a year from the Amsterdam house and contributions under the name of William Bell will regularly appear, particularly from North America and from the Latin American countries you will visit: in your passport, of course, there are valid visas wherever necessary.’
It was superb tradecraft, thought Yuri admiringly.
‘Naturally you must expect surveillance because you are Russian, attached to the United Nations,’ continued Belov. ‘Always take the greatest care to clear your path before undertaking any journey: this system has taken a long time to establish and must not be endangered.’
After the last few days in Moscow Yuri was determined to take the greatest care about everything. Politely he said: ‘I will do nothing to endanger it.’ Was that a promise he could keep, surrounded by so much uncertainty?
‘As a supposed travel writer you’ve every reason to fly in and out of New York direct to Europe,’ went on Belov. ‘But use that routing sparingly. On a British passport you can cross into Canada without any record being made. And from there don’t always travel West to East, to reach Europe. Asia is available, from Vancouver: it’s protracted, I know, but it’s secure.’
Yuri tried to remember how early trail-clearing and route variation had been instilled into him, at training school: certainly one of the first sessions. He said: ‘And Latin America is to be used the same way?’
‘The Caribbean, too,’ said Belov. ‘There are direct flights across the Atlantic from nearly all of the islands. But minimize the use of Colombia and Bolivia and Peru and Mexico. They’re target countries for drug smuggling into America. So more attention is paid to people on incoming flights than from other parts of the region. Always travel light, if you’ve no alternative: no large luggage to bring yourself to any Customs attention.’
Or hammer and sickle motif on his tie or ear-flapped fur hats, thought Yuri. This really was very basic.
‘At all times, during these return trips, you will be travelling on the William Bell passport,’ said Belov. ‘There must be no occasion whatsoever, no matter what the emergency or crisis, when you make contact with any Soviet embassy. We have, for instance, made extensive use in the past of the Soviet legation in Mexico City: so much so that the Americans maintain permanent surveillance upon it. We ignore it now, happy for them to waste their time and manpower. But I don’t want you detected, making such a mistake.’
That he might have done so was even more unlikely than over-using Colombia or Bolivia on return trips, thought Yuri. He said: ‘I would not consider using the same entry points into Europe, either. I would always employ transfer connections, between one country and another, before routing myself back here …’ He saw Belov preparing to speak, but hurried on: ‘And of course I would not always enter direct, through Moscow. There is always Leningrad, either by air or the ferry, from Finland.’
Belov nodded, smiling slightly, conscious of the other man’s need to prove himself. Why not? Confidence was one of the most important requirements for an operator forced constantly to maintain a false identity in false – or alien – surroundings. He said: ‘How do you regard this posting?’
‘With great anticipation,’ said Yuri honestly. He was about to add that it was precisely what he had been trained for but realized it might indicate some criticism of the briefing, so he stopped.
‘There will be long periods when you are absolutely by yourself, without the support of any rezidentura,’ warned Belov.
That had always been made obvious during his training. Yuri knew he would have no difficulty operating entirely alone. He said: ‘How will my absences from New York be explained?’
‘Without difficulty, if we succeed in the United Nations assignment we want.’
Which they did. Yuri’s posting was into the public affairs division, from which representatives
travelled freely and frequently around America, explaining to colleges and universities and contributing governmental bodies the value and necessity of the organization’s existence. The travelling was not even restricted to America because the United Nations has separate establishments in Geneva and Vienna.
On the morning of his departure for New York, Yuri said to his father: ‘I think I should know what it is between you and Kazin.’
The older man hesitated, unsure, and then once more shook his head in refusal. ‘Later,’ he said. ‘When this business is all over.’
‘Why not now?’ said Yuri, exasperated.
‘This way it’s better,’ said Malik stubbornly.
John Willick was finding it difficult to hang on. He knew he had to because if he collapsed – collapsed more than he already had, that is – he would risk discovery and if he were discovered it was a trial and jail, with the key thrown into the Potomac or whatever river ran near whatever penitentiary he was sent to. All he needed was a run of luck: just six months with the market going in his favour, his stocks rising as fast as they had been falling, and the horses being on form, and he’d be out of trouble. That’s all it was: bad luck. A lot of bad, cruddy luck, hitting a market slide when that bitch of a wife got her alimony settlement and the horses started running badly and he’d needed three months hospitalization after the ulcer had proven worse than they expected under the exploratory operation and some intestine had to be removed. Jesus, would anyone believe the cost of hospitalization in America! Or such bad luck!
He hadn’t given a lot away to the Russians. Well, not at first anyway. Just the sort of assessments and judgements that he’d come to recognize after five years as a senior analyst on the CIA’s Soviet desk were nearly always cobbled together from newspaper and magazine opinions: the sort of thing the Russians could have assembled themselves, if they’d taken the trouble. A bit more important when he’d become deeply involved, dependent upon the money, and the fucking stock market and the fucking horses had continued to lose instead of win. Spy-in-the-sky stuff, giving them the chance to realize the accuracy and the precise positioning of the satellites, but that really wasn’t such a big deal either. They weren’t stupid. They knew the satellites were there and they were technologically advanced enough to know the precision that was possible. He’d never disclosed anything to endanger anyone’s life. Important, that. Just facts, never anything life or death.
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