“You are not a spy?”
“No.“Miroshnikov looked up. He smiled gently. “Do you speak Russian?”
he asked in Russian. McAllister did not reply.
“I asked if you spoke Russian,” Miroshnikov said in English. “No.”
“I think you are lying to me. I think you will be doing a lot of lying at first. But there is time. All the time in the world.”
“I’d like to speak with a representative of my embassy,” McAllister said. His voice was clear, but held just a hint of an East Coast accent.
Miroshnikov sat forward and glanced at McAllister’s file. “An odd job, wouldn’t you say, a Second Secretary? Odd, that is, for a man who graduated first in his class at West Point. Quite an achievement, I might add.”
“It happens.”
“What I don’t understand, however, is why you resigned your commission after only two years. I am under the impression that upon graduation from West Point you are required to serve six years. Your father, the general, must have been terribly disappointed in you.”
McAllister held his silence.
“Or was he, I wonder,” Miroshnikov said.
McAllister had lost all sense of time, though he suspected that it might be after midnight. He was tired, hungry, cold, and stiff from sitting so many hours in the steel chair.
“I wonder if you are aware of Soviet law in regards to suspected foreign agents,” Miroshnikov said.
“Only vaguely,” McAllister replied. He was thinking about his wife. By now she would be safely at the embassy. She would light a fire under Ambassador Smith himself, if need be.
“Unfortunately for the individual there is no right of habeas corpus here. I can keep you like this for as long as I want. For as long as it takes to find out what it is my superiors are so anxious to learn.”
“I am not a spy.” He had been through this training at the Farm.
It was called Progressive Resistance Under Interrogation. Give nothing at first, they’d been taught. Only later should you admit to bits and pieces, nothing important at first. In the end, of course, they all knew that a man’s will could be broken. Torture or drugs. Sooner or later it would come, and with it the possibility of mental or physical damage. But with this one, he thought, damage would not matter. It was in the interrogator’s eyes. The man was not human.
“Oh, but you are, Mr. McAllister. We knew that from the very moment you set foot on Soviet soil twenty-three months and eleven days ago. We have been watching you. Waiting for the proper time to arrest you. And it has come. We are now in what can be considered the pretrial phase. Are you listening to me?”
“I’m listening,” McAllister said. By now Langley would have been notified that he was missing. The first stage of the search was called Pre-Comms, in which his haunts in Moscow would be quietly visited. Perhaps he was having an affair, and he was at the home of his mistress. Perhaps he was involved with one of his sources and could not break free. Perhaps he was with friends. Later, the Ex-Comms stage would be initiated. Hospitals would be contacted, as would the Moscow Militia equivalent to American civil police. Perhaps McAllister had been injured in an auto accident. Perhaps he had been arrested for drunken driving, or running a stoplight. In Moscow it took very little to land in jail, especially for a foreigner. But all that took time.
“Very good,” Miroshnikov was saying. “Because believe me, your life depends upon your complete understanding.”
“I demand to speak to a representative of my embassy.”
“Let’s talk, for a moment, about your grandfather… “Let’s not.”
“Stewart Alvin McAllister. A Scot. Very important man in Great Britain in his day. Did you know, by the way, that your grandfather came here to Moscow in 1920? He was sent to study the Cheka the forerunner of our KGB. He was looking for ideas for his own Secret Intelligence Service. And he was quite effective, from what I gather.”
“I never knew him.”
“More’s the pity,” Miroshnikov said. “It’s an odd thing about us Russians, but don’t you know that in one respect we are very much like the German peoples. We have a propensity for keeping records. We write things down in triplicate, and then file the bits and pieces in little cubbyholes. Someday you will have to see the great pile of records we’ve amassed since 1917, awesome.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“Your father, for instance, is in our files. He immigrated to the United States in 1923, joined the army and became a general. Another amazing achievement. In fact it was your father, along with Alan Dulles, Bill Donovan, and a few others, who created your secret intelligence service. So I imagine he was actually quite proud indeed when you resigned your army commission to work for the Company.”
“I work for the State Department.”
“It is too bad your father isn’t alive now to see this. He was a good man. A brave man. A straightforward man. A soldier. He knew who his enemies were, and he met them head on. He didn’t have to sneak around back alleys talking to dissidents.”
McAllister held himself in check. Had it been because of Voronin after all? If they got to that old man he would fold and they would have all the evidence they would need for a conviction. He began to have his first doubts that this would turn out so good after all. He sat a little forward. “May I have something to eat?”
“No.”
“Something to drink, at least?”
“I think not. There is more ground to cover here. For instance, why didn’t you make a career of the military service? You were raised in an officer’s household, you attended military boarding school the Thomas Academy in Connecticut-and you graduated West Point. Class of ‘71.
“I was tired of the military.”
“I haven’t seen your complete service record yet. But I am sure that you distinguished yourself in Vietnam. Or did something happen in 1973? Did you feel the sense of shame that you had lost your little war? Is that it? Are you a dropout?”
“The State Department was hiring.”
Miroshnikov smiled again. “You thought you could do more for your country with words than bullets, is that it?”
“Something like that.”
“Are you a Democrat or a Republican, Mr. McAllister? A registered party member?”
“What about it?”
“You’re not. Curious that you are willing to fight, or talk, for your freedom, but you are not willing to register with a party. In this country we take our government much more seriously.”
“You don’t have the choice.”
“Neither do you now,” Miroshnikov said softly. “Only because I’m here in this place for the moment.”
“For the moment, yes, Mr. McAllister. But a moment that could stretch to the end of your life. It depends on you. Upon how willing you will be to cooperate. And in the end you will talk to me. They all do.”
“If I don’t?”
“You will.”
“If I’m damaged you’ll have a hard time explaining it.”
“I think not.”
“Drugs, is that it?”
“Perhaps,” Miroshnikov said. “But I am glad to see that you are beginning to have a healthy curiosity about your future. It means to me that you will not be so tough, though from what I understand the CIA’s training camp outside of Williamsburg the Farm, isn’t that what you call the place? is staffed with some of the very best instructors in the business. I’ve often found myself wishing I could see it.”
McAllister allowed himself a smile. “With my connections at State, I’m sure something could be worked out. Perhaps a tour of the headquarters building at Langley, Colonel…
Miroshnikov glanced at the file again. “I suspect you were trained at the Farm in 1974, did your desk duty at Langley and then received your first overseas posting shortly afterward. I show you in Greece in 1975.”
“As a Special Assistant in the Political Affairs Section.”
“Your cover.”
“I am not a spy, I d
on’t know how many times I have to tell you that.”
“No?”
“No.”
Miroshnikov smiled gently, indulgently, as a father might at a child who has been naughty.” Then a dreadful mistake has been made here, Mr. McAllister. A letter of apology will have to be sent, of course. This sort of thing has never happened before. You understand?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Just a few more questions, I think. You can manage just a little longer?”
“A mistake has been made. So release me. Now. Short of that let me speak with a representative from my embassy.”
Miroshnikov’s eyebrows rose.“Dear me, my good fellow, I believe you don’t understand after all.”
“What?”
“A mistake has been made, but not by us. By you, sir. By your government. By your ambassador.”
McAllister glanced up at the video camera mounted on the ceiling, its lens staring implacably toward the center of the room. He looked back at Miroshnikov.” What are you talking about?”
“The gun. The Beretta automatic that you were carrying in your pocket. Your ambassador must write us an immediate letter of explanation and apology. Second secretaries, even assistants to the ambassador, do not run around Moscow armed with deadly weapons. Only spies carry weapons, don’t you see? And in Moscow we execute spies.”
Chapter 2
The method of interrogation was as simple as it was effective. The Russians had been perfecting the art for many years, and Chief Interrogator Miroshnikov was very good at it.
In the first place, McAllister was denied sleep or even any proper rest. The interrogation sessions, sometimes lasting up to ten hours each, came at any time of the day or night. He would often be brought back to his tiny cell with its strong overhead light that was never switched off, where he might be allowed to lie on his bed which consisted of nothing more than an unpadded stainless-steel shelf hanging off the wall. Sometimes this bed was wet, at other times it was too hot even to touch and he would have to squat against the wall because the floor constantly had water running over it.
As often as not his rest period only lasted ten or fifteen minutes, when he would be hauled to his feet, dragged out into the corridor where he was made to undress and stand, shivering in the cold, at attention, until it was time to return to the interrogation room.
“There will come a point where I will be useless to you,” McAllister said, running a hand across the stubble of beard on his face.” It’s a delicate balance for you, colonel, between wearing me down so I become cooperative, versus wearing me down so badly that I’ll collapse on you. Maybe my heart will stop.”
“Time, I believe you are beginning to understand, is on my side,” Miroshnikov said, sipping his tea, steam rising from the glass.” For you, of course, the actual hours and minutes are of little consequence.” He smiled.” And yes, I agree with you. Your heart might stop. It is something to think about.”
“Then I would be dead, and of no further use to you.”
“On the contrary. We might not let you die. Not yet. But even in death you would be of some use to us. We Russians are frugal with our resources. And you, my dear McAllister, are most definitely a resource.”
“I would like to speak to a representative of my embassy.”
“Such comments are counterproductive at this point,” Miroshnikov said. He opened a file folder on the steel table between them.” Let’s return to Greece, August of 1975. As we see it your cover was as a special assistant in the embassy’s political section. You were the new kid on the block, as they say, but nevertheless you were given the responsibility for product management of a very successful agent network that operated across the border in”
“I was a political officer, nothing more. We were having trouble with the Greek government at the time, as you may recall. I was a troubleshooter.”
“The network was called Scorpius, which we thought at the time was quite imaginative. In fact your little nest of spies was quite effective, until the woman-Raiza Stainov-fell out of love with her control officer, in this case a man we learned was Alfred Lapides, with whom you had regular contact over a period of thirty-three months.”
“I’ve never heard the names,” McAllister said.” It’s of no mind to me now. Lapides is dead, killed in an unfortunate automobile accident in Sofia. We need, however, information on two other men-Thomas Murdock and Georgi Morozov. They were part of your Scorpius Network. Where exactly did they fit, can you tell me at least that much?”
The extent of Miroshnikov’s knowledge was bothersome, but they had known finally that the network had been blown, though they had never suspected Raiza. She had been one of their gold seams. Her husband had been chief of Section Three of the Bulgarian Military Intelligence Service, serving directly under General Ivan Vladigerov. Through Raiza they had learned about troop movements, about the new Soviet-Bulgarian missile pact in which Soviet 55–18 nuclear missiles were placed very near the Greek border, and on the failing health of Bulgarian Defense Minister Petko Dimitrov. How much of that information had been legitimate and how much had been disinformation now was seriously in doubt. Miroshnikov had provided him with a stunning piece of intelligence. Information, however, that was of absolutely no use in here.“I’ve never heard their names either,” McAllister said.” You are lying, but there is time, and I have no doubt that we will finally hit upon a subject of which you will be willing to speak about with me.”
“We can talk about my work with the Greek Government.”
Miroshnikov looked up from the file folder.” I want nothing more than the truth here, Mr. McAllister. Not so terribly much to ask, you know. I have all of the facts, or at least most of them. I’ll admit this much to you; in all honesty we think that your work has been absolutely tops. Just first class. It is, in fact, the very reason you are here now. We don’t arrest second-rate spies.”
“I’m not a spy.”
“Oh, but you are, Mr. McAllister. Of that there can be no doubt. But let’s go back to your record. I show you in West Berlin from June of 1978 until June of 1980. In Czechoslovakia from July of 1980 until June of 1982. Poland from July of 1982 to December 1984. Afghanistan for nine months until August 1985, and then here to Moscow in September of that same year.” Miroshnikov looked up again.” Including your year at the Farm and on the various foreign desks at Langley, a quite remarkable fourteen-year association with CIA.”
“With the State Department.”
“With the Central Intelligence Agency.” Again Miroshnikov consulted his file and read off a number.” Your agency identification number, is it not?”
It was.” I’ve never heard that number before.”
“There is no use belaboring that point for the moment. Let’s go back to Athens, and the Scorpius network. Specifically to Thomas Murdock, an elusive man by all accounts. Last we heard of him he was running an airline out of Panama. The drug connection. But in this we are not one hundred percent certain. Can you tell me about him? A very large man, isn’t he?”
Murdock had been one of the best, though McAllister had no fond memories about him. He was a large man, six-feet-six at two hundred fifty pounds. He smoked Cuban cigars, drank black rum, and had been really out of place with Scorpius. In those days it was still possible to operate light planes or helicopters across the border well under Bulgarian radar. His job was as network resupply and drop officer, as well as a safety valve should they need to get their people out in a big hurry. He had been a man with absolutely no fear.
“Thank you,” Miroshnikov said respectfully.” He wrote something in the files. “Go on.” McAllister looked at the Russian. Had he spoken out loud? He rubbed his eyes. His stomach was rumbling, his gut tight, and there was a heavy, disconcerting feeling in his chest. He searched the edges of his awareness, mentally exploring his mind and body. It could be drugs, he thought, though he felt nothing, no tingling around the edges as he had been taught might be the case. Miroshnikov, he decided, was
playing with him. Testing him.
“Go on with what?” he asked at length.
“With what you were saying about Murdock, naturally. We were finally getting somewhere. You knew him, and you admitted it, though you did not like him. No personal friendships there, such as with Lapides. But can you tell me what he is doing these days? Just a station name. Or even a simple confirmation of my information that he is in Panama. Just anything, Mr. McAllister.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But you do, my dear fellow, you do.” Miroshnikov was beaming earnestly.” We’re making progress and I feel very good about it.” He closed the file folder. “And so should you. We have finally broken down the first barrier which is always the most difficult.” He stood up. “Really quite excellent,” he said.
McAllister looked up at him, his head suddenly very heavy, his eyes burning. What in God’s name had he said? Had he actually given voice to his thoughts?
“I will now give you a piece of information. A bit of stimuli for you. Today is Wednesday, Mr. McAllister, and do you know what that means?”
“No.”
“You have been with us for one week and a day,” Miroshnikov shook his head in amazement.” A record, I think. We usually come to this first stage much sooner. Sometimes within hours, certainly never in my memory as long as a week.” *
In the second place McAllister was denied proper food. His meals, when they came, consisted of little more than tepid water, a very thin Del or sometimes a potato soup and occasionally a slice of dark, stale bread. It was enough nourishment to keep him alive, barely, and of course his food was laced with chemicals which at times caused him severe stomach cramps, at other times nausea so that he would vomit what he had just eaten, and at still other times, diarrhea. There was no toilet, or even bucket in his tiny cell. Water constantly ran over the concrete floor, draining through a hole in the corner. He was forced to take care of his bodily functions while leaning against the cold wall, sometimes remaining in that position for an hour, the thin, watery stool running down his legs. He would then cross to the opposite side of the cell where he would wash himself as best he could.
The Zebra Network Page 2