To Catch a Traitor

by Shuster, D. B. ;

  To Catch a Traitor

  Sins of a Spy Series Book One

  D. B. SHUSTER

  CRIME BYTES MEDIA

  NEW YORK

  DEDICATION

  For Gene, my favorite Ruski

  and

  For Kristine and the Deer Park Moms Book Club

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  THANK YOU FOR choosing this book. Like all juicy sagas, this one has a large cast of characters. You’ll find a character list included at the end for your reference as well as a glossary of foreign terms. You’re also welcome to download the family tree from my website.

  This is a work of historical fiction. The characters and the family saga told in this series are purely fictional, but aspects of the story come straight from historical accounts of the Cold War. I have drawn deeply on the history of Soviet Jews, particularly of the Refusenik community. Their daily trials—the surveillance, the menial jobs, the anti-Semitism, and the harassment by the KGB—are all well documented, although I have taken liberties here. I have also drawn on autobiographies and journalistic accounts of American and Russian spies to give richness and realism to this part of the tale. In particular, Sofia’s use of the Tropel cameras and her methods of signaling the CIA were drawn from the exploits of Adolf Tolkachev, powerfully told in David Hoffman’s Billion Dollar Spy.

  In conducting research for this book, I was struck by how often the men dominated the story, with the women relegated to the roles of wives and daughters, supporters in a public struggle, but seldom the main actors. I was similarly struck by how seldom women took central roles in the accounts of spies on both sides of the struggle. Indeed, in the Soviet Union, it seems few women served as agents, and many of those that did were relegated to the role of “dangle,” luring in the prize but not managing it once caught. This exclusion seemed to reflect a far-reaching prejudice, especially since the Refusenik and dissident narratives almost never included details of women being regularly followed and harassed by KGB tails, and since women also seemed to receive lighter sentences at trial.

  As a sociologist, I do not doubt that few women rose high in the spy ranks. This dearth from the 1980s is still evident today when we look at the numbers of women in top leadership positions in the intelligence community. But as a researcher myself, I do seriously question the second-fiddle role women ostensibly played among dissidents and Refuseniks. I suspect that the published histories also reflect the subconscious biases of their authors in terms of the questions asked, the people interviewed, the weight given to particular activities, and the attribution of credit. I couldn’t resist exploiting these seeming blind spots to create this thrilling saga.

  Finally, I have an odd personal connection to this material. I grew up in America, a child of the Cold War. I remember learning in school about the evils of Communism and the nuclear threat. I remember when Sting’s “Russians” came out in 1985 and the radical notion that our “enemy” might be just like us. In middle school, I heard the famous dissident and Refusenik, Natan Sharansky, speak at my synagogue, and my family was moved to participate in the March for Soviet Jewry in Washington, D.C. in 1987. But this history became even more personal for me when I met Gene in the 1990s. At our wedding, he thanked President Gorbachev for letting his family emigrate from the Soviet Union so that he could come to America and meet me.

  Chapter ONE

  SOFIA

  SOFIA HURRIED PAST the KGB agents who constantly tailed her father. They stomped their feet and rubbed their gloved hands together to fight off the lingering winter chill and kept their eyes trained on his cement-block apartment building. They acted as if they hadn’t noticed her, but she was no fool.

  Head ducked against the March wind and the cold drizzle in the air, she headed in the direction of the subway station, the way she always did a few evenings a week, carrying the same tote bag she always did, full of the same items she always carried.

  Nothing about her errand should pique their attention.

  When she reached the corner at the end of the block, she regarded them out of the corner of her eye. Aside from a small difference in height, they seemed nearly identical in their wool coats and fur hats. One of the agents turned his head in her direction. She couldn’t see his eyes behind his dark sunglasses, but she felt the heavy weight of his gaze.

  Should the agents stop her, as they sometimes did, they would find nothing of interest. At least not at first glance.

  It was the chance of the second glance that made her nervous.

  She waited impatiently for the light to change. The longer she lingered at the corner, the greater the risk they would approach, especially with this raw weather that surely exacerbated the miserable monotony of surveillance.

  Her father, their focus, was cozy upstairs in his apartment and would be all evening, waiting for her son to come home from school and then helping him with his homework and enjoying the hot borscht and potatoes her mother would prepare for them.

  The second agent checked his watch and nodded. He remarked to the first. She couldn’t hear or read lips, but his companion’s face cracked into a creepy smile. She knew she was right on schedule, and they knew it, too. Likely they joked that they could set their watches by her.

  She smiled to herself. Predictability was one of her best tricks. The KGB imagined she was setting off to clean toilets at Moscow State University, when in reality she was off to change the world.

  The light changed. She scurried across the street. Several blocks and a subway ride later, she arrived right on time for her shift. The professors and students were heading home for the day, leaving a warren of mostly empty offices, hallways, and classrooms.

  She stopped at the security desk in her building to retrieve her name badge. The new guard, Grisha, hadn’t given her any real trouble yet, but he seemed to enjoy ogling her. He made a cursory inspection of her tote.

  His fat hands lingered on the slacks folded on top, but he didn’t dig around, didn’t notice the heavy key fob tucked in the pocket.

  She went to the supply closet to change into her work clothes. She fastened the slacks and checked the pocket, making sure the precious key fob was securely in place. Then she gathered her mop, rags, rubber gloves, and bleach and hauled them up the stairs to the third floor.

  Grisha followed her up the stairs. There were three bathrooms up here for her to clean, one on each end of the hall and a third, more private, within the suite of offices that included Max’s old laboratory.

  Taking a chain of keys from his pocket, Grisha searched for the one that opened the door to the suite.

  She waited impatiently and shifted the bucket and bleach from one hand to the other to relieve the growing ache in her muscles. Finally, he unlocked the door and ushered her inside. Together, they crossed a small reception area to another wooden door, and Grisha again began the process of searching through the keys for the right one.

  She could have told him it was the one with the green plastic holder over its end and sped up the process, but she didn’t want him to think her overly interested in the security measures.

  When he finally finished fumbling with the keys and the lock, Grisha held the door open for her. Her hands were full of cleaning supplies, but he didn’t ease her burden. Instead, he pinched her bottom as she passed defenselessly by him.

  Her shoulders tightened. They were alone up here.

  She clutched the mop handle and worried what she would do if he made a more aggressive advance—how she would fend him off, how she might disarm him and still manage to keep this job.

  Too much depended on her ongoing access to Max’s office and the valuable secrets inside.


  The hallway was dark. Instead of turning on the lights, Grisha held the door open and let the light from the outer office guide her. Sofia counted the doors as she hefted her supplies down the corridor. The third on the right had been Max’s. The sixth was the bathroom.

  She unlocked the door to the bathroom with the key she had been given. Once inside, she pressed her ear to the door. When she heard the sound of the hall door closing, she crept back into the hallway and tiptoed to Max’s office.

  No one had thought to revoke her brother-in-law’s access to the research laboratory that used to be his. If they ever thought about him, it wouldn’t be as a risk to the security of their information. No one had heard from him in the seven years since his trial. He was either in the gulag or dead.

  Just like her husband.

  She slipped the chain from under her shirt. The keys hanging from it were warm from her skin. She kissed them once for luck and tried the lock, first to the office door and then to the file cabinet. Success!

  It amazed her every time that with all of the other security measures, the university never bothered to change the locks.

  She only hoped her luck would hold.

  The office’s new occupant had a meticulous filing system. Sofia easily found the report she wanted. She stuffed the file under her shirt, closed the cabinet, and eased open the door. Still no sign of Grisha.

  She raced back to the bathroom and closed herself in the big stall at the end near the window. The radiator connected to the wall, and a wooden box covered the metal pipes. Heart pounding, she opened the file over the fat shelf of wood atop the radiator. The report was nearly 100 pages long. She had been working on this one slowly, five to ten pages at a time.

  She retrieved the key fob from her pocket. She unscrewed the top to open the lens of the tiny Tropel camera hidden inside.

  Working with the Tropel was a slow and painstaking process. Picking up where she left off, she slid page 30 into the brightest spot in the middle of the ledge. Holding the tiny camera with both hands, she propped her elbows around the first page and held the camera above it. She lined her hands up with the notch she’d made in the window frame, the requisite 28 centimeters from the shelf.

  She took a steadying breath and clicked the shutter.

  The bathroom stall was hot. She would have cracked the window, but she didn’t want to risk a breeze ruffling her papers.

  Sofia wiped her damp hands on her thighs before picking up the paper and flipping to the next page of the report. She couldn’t risk leaving sweat on the pages. If and when the laboratory researchers pulled the file to review, they would surely be suspicious if they found stray wet marks on their report.

  She set up the next page. She worked methodically and with a sense of quiet power.

  These photographs wouldn’t change history. They wouldn’t save her husband or Max and his family from trial and imprisonment. They wouldn’t restore the years that had been robbed from them all.

  But they could change the future.

  They could be used to weaken the Soviet military and pressure the Kremlin to let her people leave a country that hated them.

  She glanced at her watch. Eighteen minutes had passed since she’d stolen the file. She still had more than half of the file left to photograph, but she returned the report to its folder and sneaked back to Max’s office.

  She exercised strict discipline, never stealing more than twenty minutes at a time. It was too hard to conceal her activities if she took longer. The slow pace frustrated her, but over the course of six years, twenty minutes of photographs several times a week had nonetheless yielded an impressive flow of information.

  The cabinet drawer was full, and the file was a tight fit. She took pains to push it down into its spot and straighten the edges to hide the evidence that it had been removed.

  In the process, she noticed the corner of another file sticking up above the others. She glanced around, satisfied herself no one was coming, and pulled the file. She flipped through the first few pages of what seemed to be a report on a recent long-range missile test, discussing the impressive capabilities of a new prototype.

  Reluctantly, she put the file back in its place. “I’ll be back for you,” she whispered.

  She locked up the cabinet and the office and then returned to clean the mirrors. She wiped the pipes so that they appeared clean and shiny. No one would give her high marks for diligent cleaning, but the bathroom would have the appearance and smell of having been washed and tidied. Good enough that her job would be secure.

  She finished quickly and moved to the other bathrooms in the building.

  Grisha never came to check on her. She changed out of her clothes and checked compulsively—as she changed, as she folded the slacks, as she placed them in her bag—that the mini camera remained tucked in the pocket, hidden in her bag.

  She kept her bag tucked close against her side as she left the university campus. The wet wind clawed at her with cold fingers. She was dressed for the cold in her coat and knit woolen hat, but she was shivering when she arrived a few minutes later at the subway station.

  The station was warm inside, but as she descended the stairs, she immediately spotted two KGB agents on the platform. They stared openly at her, and the cold chill inside her didn’t abate.

  They made no attempt to hide or to fit in with the handful of people waiting for the next train. Stiffly formal, they had the same bland look edged with irritation, the same leather loafers, the same heavy wool coats and fur hats with ear flaps.

  She clutched her bag closer to her side and turned deliberately away from them as if she hadn’t seen them, as if they couldn’t possibly be here for her, as if the threat of their presence made no difference.

  She gazed sideways at them and saw them moving toward her. Although she stood stalk still, her heart started to pound as if she were running hard.

  Maybe someone did suspect after all.

  Would the agents search her bag? If they discovered the tiny Tropel inside the key fob, they would know what it was and guess where it had come from.

  They would execute her.

  She glanced around, wondering if there was somewhere she could stash the camera or some way to buy time and get away. She was so consumed by her fear of discovery and her frantic search for an escape that she didn’t notice the third man coming toward her.

  She turned away from the tracks, ready to head back up the stairs, when she barreled into him. He rocked back with the force of the impact and clutched her shoulders.

  “Easy,” he said hoarsely. “Easy.”

  She started to dodge out of his grasp, and his fingers tightened on her.

  “Don’t.” He hissed a warning under his breath. “Don’t run. You’ll only make things worse.”

  Chapter TWO

  ARTUR

  NERVOUS WITH ANTICIPATION, Artur sat in a booth at the back corner of the restaurant. He had an unimpeded line of sight to the Jew, his target, Edouard Soifer, aka “Edik,” who slouched at the bar and waited for the bartender to refill his shot glass with vodka.

  Jewish traitors were passing dangerous propaganda and information to their compatriots abroad and endangering the whole country’s prospects for peace. Edik and his father were known to host foreigners in their home, making Edik a potentially valuable informant and perhaps even a prospect for passing on misinformation.

  If tonight went well, Artur would prove to Victor his skill as a spy handler, capable of turning civilians and even hostiles into valuable assets.

  He had butterflies in his stomach and the delectable thrill of the chase. Spy work was perhaps more heady even than falling in love.

  The bartender delivered Edik his next shot, his fourth by Artur’s count. Drinking alone, Edik looked lonely. Almost handsome but for his perpetual frown and penchant to overindulge in liquor, he
seemed to Artur the kind of man who would easily be dazzled if a beautiful woman showed him some interest. A woman like Lilya.

  Artur fondled the miniature listening device, no bigger than a kopek, in his jacket pocket and nodded to Lilya, the dangle he’d requested for this evening.

  Lilya sashayed up to the bar. Her innocent, wide-eyed expression made her seem younger than she was and camouflaged her jaded cynicism and years of expertise. She was his ace in the hole on this one.

  Artur wagered that with inhibitions already weakened by drink, Edik wouldn’t stand a chance against Lilya’s charms. The only question was how long it would take her to lure him to her hotel room.

  Lilya seated herself on the stool beside Edik and brushed her hand along his arm, a subtle move to get his attention. Edik swiveled to face her. She leaned forward and put her plump cleavage on full display, a less subtle effort, but undoubtedly effective. Edik’s pasty face flushed a bright pink.

  Artur rubbed his hands together. This was going to be easy. By midnight, the lonely man would be proclaiming his undying love. They wouldn’t even need to plant the listening device in his shoe to get all of the information they wanted from him.

  Lilya murmured something to Edik, and he fumbled his drink. He dropped the full shot glass on her. The bartender rushed over with a stack of cloth napkins, and Edik awkwardly mopped at Lilya’s lap.

  Apologizing profusely, he became more flustered and awkward with each passing moment.

  Lilya reassured him and tilted her head. Edik should have leaned in at Lilya’s coy invitation, but he abruptly grabbed up his coat and hat, turned, and walked away from her.

  Artur swore viciously under his breath. He couldn’t let Edik walk away before the approach had even happened.

  He didn’t know when he would get another chance like this one. He couldn’t fail.

  He threw a few rubles on the table and got up from his booth. He moved nonchalantly to the door, readying himself to intercept Edik, though unsure what he would do to detain him.