Cauldron

by Larry Bond

  Sure. Strozier stood rigid with anger. “My ambassador will protest this, Helmut. Vigorously.”

  “Of course.” Ziegler turned to the watching policeman. “I think we’re done here, Captain. Would you please make sure my driver is ready?”

  “At once, sir.”

  The two men watched him leave. When the doors swung shut, Strozier turned on the BfV officer angrily. “All right, just what the fuck is going on around here? Jesus Christ, Helmut, that kid was murdered and you know it!”

  Ziegler nodded sadly. “I know it.” He pointed to Vance’s body. “Believe me, Richard. This was not our work.”

  The German lowered his voice. “I don’t know exactly what your people have stumbled into, but I do know that it’s very dangerous. The orders to seal off the Wismar region did not come from my government. They came from somewhere even higher.”

  “EurCon?”

  A look of distaste crossed Ziegler’s lean face. “The Interior Secretariat.” He shook his head. “Be very careful, Richard. And keep your people away from that town if you want to keep them alive. These French bastards don’t give a damn who gets in their way.”

  When Strozier got back to the embassy, he found Major Kasimir Malinowska waiting for him.

  The short, thin Polish intelligence officer was acting as his government’s watchdog for the German end of the North Star investigation. “Well? Was it as you feared?”

  “Yes. Maybe even worse.” Strozier filled him in on the afternoon’s events.

  “I see.” Malinowska frowned. “What will you do next?”

  “I don’t know.” The Berlin chief of station shook his head wearily. “I’m not sure where we go from here. We know that the French planted that bomb. We know the name of the fishing trawler they used for the job. Hell, we even know they killed poor Vance to cover it up. But we’ve got no proof.”

  “Perhaps the satellite photographs are enough?” Malinowska suggested.

  “Unlikely.” Strozier shrugged. “Besides, I doubt that Washington will risk releasing those pictures without other hard evidence. On their own, all they do is show the bad guys just how good our coverage is.”

  “Then your superiors may do nothing?” The Pole sounded angry.

  “No. Yes. Possibly.” Strozier rubbed his forehead. “Jesus, I really don’t see what they can do. Without Vance’s pictures or access to this Wismar place, we’ve reached a dead end.”

  Malinowska’s pale blue eyes turned hard. “Perhaps that is true. And perhaps it is not.” He didn’t bother explaining what he meant by that.

  MARCH 28 — MINISTRY OF TRADE, MOSCOW

  Erin McKenna was making her routine rounds through the Russian bureaucracy when she caught the first whiff of impending trouble.

  “Speaking bluntly, Deputy Minister, Honeywell isn’t going to spend the money needed to retool the Tula plant until they’re sure your government isn’t planning to renationalize it.” She smiled to take the sting out of her words. “After all, nobody puts their best silver out when they know a thief is on the way.”

  “That is true.” Russia’s deputy minister for trade looked troubled. The martial law regime’s on-again, off-again attitude toward the private sector was wreaking havoc with her efforts to encourage foreign investment and foreign trade. Kaminov and his fellow soldiers didn’t seem to understand that their capricious seizures had very real and very predictable economic effects. Businessmen could not and would not make long-term financial commitments without some assurances that their investments were safe from arbitrary government action.

  Erin watched the other woman carefully. Getting a handle on Russia’s intentions toward the Tula electronics factory was important for two reasons. First, an American firm now owned a forty-nine percent stake in the place — a multimillion-dollar investment. And an important part of her cover involved helping U.S. companies navigate their way through the convoluted, peculiarly Russian web of regulation, intrigue, and competing ministerial interests. The second reason was much more important. The personal computer components produced at Tula could be used for either civilian or military purposes. Government plans to seize the factory would be a clear warning that Russia was rearming.

  The deputy minister made up her mind. “I can assure you, Miss McKenna, that — ” A sharp knock on the door interrupted whatever she was going to say. “Yes, what is it?”

  Her special assistant poked his head into the office. “Galinia Ostrokova, may I see you for a moment? It’s very urgent.”

  “All right, Viktor.” The deputy minister rose from behind her desk. Erin noticed again that she was a lot shorter than she looked sitting down. “Will you excuse me, please?”

  “Oh, of course.”

  The door shut behind the two Russians, leaving Erin alone inside the office. She glanced at the side table where the Trade Ministry official kept her computer. Her fingers practically itched at the chance to go dancing through secret files, but she fought off the impulse. She’d promised Banich that she’d stay out of the operational side of the intelligence game. That was the price he’d exacted for letting even an admittedly talented “amateur” roam through Moscow’s streets and government ministries.

  The deputy minister came back in looking strained and very frightened. “Miss McKenna, I must ask you to leave. Immediately. I am afraid this interview is concluded.”

  Erin felt cold suddenly. Was another purge under way? Or something much worse? She stood up. “Can I see you tomorrow, then? Or would another time be more convenient?”

  “No. I…” The Russian woman visibly hesitated. “I am not sure when it will be possible for me to meet with you again. Please check with my assistant later.”

  It had to be a purge. Kaminov must be making another sweep through the ministries, ridding them of reformers and other “undesirables.” Erin had a very strange feeling, though. The deputy minister was scared, all right, but she seemed more frightened of her than of anything else.

  Her sense that something was very wrong intensified when she came out of the Trade Ministry building and saw Mike Hennessy standing beside one of the embassy cars. She always rode the Metro whenever possible. Using the subway for her visits to government officials was usually easier, faster, and certainly more discreet.

  Hennessy already had the Lincoln’s passenger door open and its motor purring by the time she cleared the ministry’s revolving doors.

  “What’s up?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not sure. I just got a hurry-up call from Alex to pick you up and bring you straight back.”

  “And he’s the boss?”

  “That’s right. He’s the boss.” Hennessy nodded and put the car in gear.

  They made the short drive to the embassy in shared silence.

  Alex Banich looked both relieved and surprised to see her back so soon.

  “I thought you might give Hennessy more trouble,” he confessed, scrambling out of the only other chair in her office.

  “I might have if I hadn’t already had a pretty weird meeting with one of my best contacts.” Erin frowned. “Something’s going on, right?”

  “Yeah.” He glanced at her, obviously still concerned.

  “Another purge?”

  Banich shook his head. “No.” He checked his watch. “Come on. There’s a news story you should see, and it ought to be on again right about now.”

  He led her fuming down the hall to a small conference room equipped with its own television set.

  CNN’s hourly news roundup came on in midsentence. “… accused the French and German governments of criminal involvement in last month’s devastating natural gas tanker explosion. The Polish government spokesman went on to claim that an American CIA agent had recently been murdered near the tiny German town of Wismar as part of an ongoing Franco-German effort to block the North Star investigation.”

  Erin whistled in amazement. This was big news. But how did it connect up with her experience at the Trade Ministry? She turned to
ward Banich. “What…”

  He nodded toward the TV. “There’s more.”

  “When pressed for evidence to back up Poland’s charges, Mr. Wiatr responded by revealing that U.S. intelligence reports from Moscow showed a direct link between French economic subsidies and the Russian oil and gas embargo aimed at his country. Highly placed sources inside Poland’s own spy agency confirmed his account…”

  Oh, hell. Hell and damn. No wonder Ostrokova and her assistant had looked at her so suspiciously. The Poles had unwittingly blown her cover.

  “… Apparently in reaction to the news, angry mobs attacked EurCon consulates in Warsaw, Gdansk, and Krakow. Police armed with tear gas and water cannon turned them back in bitter street fighting that left several dozen people injured — some seriously. In a bid to restore public order, Poland’s Roman Catholic primate and other church authorities have appealed for calm…”

  With her mind in turmoil Erin looked away from the violent pictures flashing across the screen. She felt ill. Just when all her work was really starting to pay off, this had to happen. She saw Banich watching her sympathetically. “Now what happens? Will the Russians expel me?”

  He shook his head. “I doubt it. Kicking you out would only give us the chance to bring in someone they don’t know about. Why risk that when they can just keep closer tabs on you?”

  She nodded. Given the way Russians thought, that made sense. But then another, darker thought struck her. “What about the people I’ve been getting information from? What happens to them?”

  As always, Banich gave it to her straight. He reserved deception for his country’s enemies. “They’re in trouble. The Russian government’s goons will be backtracking every move you’ve made since you came to Moscow. Anybody you’ve made contact with is automatically suspect. And if the FIS finds hard evidence that they fed you data?” His mouth turned downward. “Espionage and treason are still capital crimes in this country.”

  Erin choked back tears. This was worse than her worst nightmare. She’d put people who had trusted her in mortal danger.

  Banich took her face gently between his hands. “This is not your fault, McKenna. You haven’t done anything wrong.” He sighed. “This comes with the territory. Sometimes the information we gather leaks out. Sometimes accidentally. Sometimes deliberately. Sometimes because it’s necessary. And sometimes because someone higher up the ladder screwed up. But people always get hurt.”

  He brushed away a single tear trickling down her cheek. “Blaming yourself won’t change that.”

  Erin breathed out softly. Did he know the effect he was having on her? “Then where do I go from here?”

  Banich gave her a small, sad smile. “You keep your head down. Stay inside the embassy compound as much as possible.”

  “But…”

  He laid a finger across her lips. “You have to. The FIS isn’t yet what the KGB used to be, but some of its agents are still thugs. They could try to set you up or use you to set someone else up — say, a prominent reformer Kaminov wants out of the way.”

  “What about my work?”

  Banich nodded. “That’s a problem. Hennessy, the others, and I will try our best to cover some of the same ground, but we’re going to be stretched pretty thin. You still have your taps into the state computer system?”

  “I think so. At least until they change the passwords and access codes.” Erin felt calmer now, better able to think clearly and plan ahead. “And even then their security people might leave some holes I can burrow in through.”

  “Good.” He stepped back, visibly turning more professional and more formal. “All right, McKenna, we’ll take a hit on this, but we’re still in business. Find out how much access you still have and let me know as soon as you can. I’ll have to report to Langley. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Erin watched Alex Banich walk away, again armored in polite indifference. But she’d seen him drop his guard. The workaholic CIA agent had a human side, after all. And she liked it.

  MARCH 29 — BUDAPEST

  The ten-story, prefabricated apartment building had been shabby when Hungary’s old communist government first constructed it. Now, after decades of neglect and overcrowding, it could only be called squalid.

  On the seventh floor, Colonel Zoltan Hradetsky squeezed past the bicycles chained to the banister and made his way down a cramped, dimly lit hallway. Cracked, unpainted concrete walls and the sour, unwashed smell of too many people living with too little running water spoke volumes about the miserable existence endured by Budapest’s poorest citizens.

  He paused outside Apartment 7-E and checked the hallway to either side. All the doors were shut. Even though he had come wearing civilian clothes, the building’s inhabitants were nowhere in sight. They must have a nose for policemen, he thought wryly. Well, perhaps he would soon need to learn their instincts.

  Despite all his bold thoughts after leaving Solicitor Bartha’s office, it had taken Hradetsky a long time to find the right man. Although Vladimir Kusin was well known in the city, no current directory listed his phone number or address. And even a famous man could vanish among the capital’s two million people — especially with help from his many friends and supporters.

  So, after spending nearly two weeks beating his head against a brick wall of feigned ignorance and outright evasion, Hradetsky had decided on a riskier, more direct approach. That was why he’d come here, to the apartment occupied by Kusin’s wife. Officially she and her husband were separated and in the midst of a messy divorce. Well, he had a hunch that the separation and the divorce were both a smoke screen — one designed to protect the woman from excessive police scrutiny and harassment. He was here to play that hunch.

  He knocked once. “Mrs. Kusin?”

  The door opened immediately. “I am Mara Kusin.”

  Hradetsky nodded. The photo he’d seen in her police file matched the woman in front of him: a young-looking, thickly built woman with two teenage children.

  He saw no point in hiding his identity. “I am Colonel Hradetsky, of the National Police.”

  Kusin’s wife blanched, then steeled herself. She nodded quietly, guardedly. She must be used to trouble.

  “May I come in?”

  For an instant, a surprised look flickered across her face. Policemen were rarely so polite. She stepped back into the dingy apartment and stood waiting, her arms folded across her chest.

  Hradetsky stepped across the threshold and shut the door behind him. He didn’t want prying ears to hear what he had to say.

  He did not bother asking her where her husband was. Even if she did know, the last person she would tell was a police colonel. “I am not here in an official capacity. But I do have a message and important information for Vladimir Kusin. It is essential that I speak with him.”

  “But I don’t know…”

  “Of course you don’t.” Hradetsky shook his head. “All I ask is that you get this to him — wherever he is.”

  He handed the woman an envelope containing a brief summary of the information he’d been given by Bela Silvanus, along with a schedule of public places where he would wait for contact over the next three days. When she took it, he felt his neck muscles tightening. He’d done it. He was committed now. Going to Solicitor Bartha with his concerns could be passed off as misguided bureaucratic maneuvering. Contacting an active member of Hungary’s banned political opposition could not.

  APRIL 1 — HEROES’ SQUARE, BUDAPEST

  Hradetsky sat on a park bench with his eyes slitted against the welcome spring sunshine, trying hard not to let his nerves get to him. That wasn’t easy. This noontime rendezvous outside the sprawling, neoclassical Museum of Fine Arts was the last of the three options he’d given Mara Kusin. Had the opposition decided to ignore him as a possible agent provocateur?

  Or worse, had his message fallen into the wrong hands? The European Confederation’s German liaison, Rehling, and his Hungarian subordinates were strengthening the nation�
��s internal security apparatus with every passing day. They might have been paying more attention to his activities than he’d imagined.

  He studied the office workers crowding the square more closely, wondering if any of them were agents assigned to watch him. Then he shrugged, almost amused at his own developing paranoia. How could he tell? There had to be several thousand people eating lunch in the vast open space dominated by the winged statue of the archangel Gabriel mounted atop a thirty-six-meter-high column. When he’d picked this spot as a possible rendezvous, he’d been thinking too much like a policeman and not enough like a conspirator. Mentally he was still on the other side of the surveillance camera.

  He was on the edge of rising to go when a young, powerfully built man with blond hair sat down next to him. Without looking up, he opened a lunch pail and laid something on the bench between them. “I think you dropped this, Colonel.”

  Hradetsky glanced down. It was the manila envelope he’d given Kusin’s wife. He picked it up. “Yes, I did.”

  “Good.” The young man smiled thinly and offered him an apple. “Then let us begin.”

  Hradetsky took a bite and listened intently as his nameless companion started asking a series of difficult questions. What were his attitudes toward the various regimes that had ruled Hungary? What had he done in past assignments? What did his current job entail? And most important of all, why did he want to see Vladimir Kusin?

  To anyone passing by, they were just two friends sharing a rare treat of fruit on a delightful spring day. The police colonel knew differently. He was being vetted — checked — by the opposition before they let him get close to Kusin.

  Hradetsky had conducted enough interrogations to know what the man was looking for, and why he wanted it. His questioner was intelligent and suspicious. The only way to deal with him was to answer every question as quickly and plainly as possible.