Flight of the Raven

by Rebecca York

  The husband was back in a few moments, shaking his head apologetically. “I ran down to the end of the block in both directions, but I think the fellow disappeared before I got to the sidewalk.”

  “You poor thing,” the wife murmured solicitously to Julie. “Is there anything we can do?”

  She shook her head and sank back into her seat.

  The manager, a distressed look on his rounded face, bustled up and began apologizing profusely in rapid Castilian.

  Julie stared at him, still disoriented. She could feel the french fries she’d eaten congealing in her stomach. She knew from the half-dozen distressed travelers who showed up at the embassy daily that this sort of thing was common.

  Silently she cursed her stupidity and tried to remember exactly what she had transferred to the black kid evening bag before going out.

  “Did anyone see the incident?” the manager asked the crowd.

  The American woman began to give a description of the thief. It could have fitted a dozen Spaniards in the room.

  Julie wasn’t really listening. What a fitting end to an upsetting evening. And then a new and more frightening thought struck her. Did her encounter with the Russian at the theater have anything to do with this? She fervently hoped not and tried to reassure herself that the theft was an unfortunate coincidence.

  She thought back over how she must have appeared as she entered the restaurant. She’d probably looked like an easy mark. Certainly she’d been lulled into a false sense of security by the nostalgia of the setting, and she was paying the price. But right now, unless she wanted to borrow cab fare from this American couple, she was going to have to call Paula or Fitz. “Can I use your telephone?” she asked the hovering manager in Spanish.

  “Sí. Sí, señorita.”

  Chapter Four

  “Good morning, sir,” the uniformed guard at the checkpoint greeted him.

  The Raven’s only acknowledgment was a curt nod. In the Soviet chain of command, dour demeanor was the rule when dealing with underlings. And if there had been any tendency to relax, everything had tightened up like a shoe factory struggling to meet a suddenly doubled quota when Bogolubov had appeared on the scene.

  After signing the log, the Raven waited until the guard clicked the lock on the heavy door. Once he had stepped inside, it closed behind him with the sound of steel meeting steel. It had often crossed his mind that if someone happened to drop a nuclear bomb on Madrid, this would be the safest place in the city. But with the guard outside dead, there wouldn’t be any way to get out again.

  The room was filled with half a dozen noisy Teletype machines spewing out pages of Cyrillic text. Five of them monitored sensitive but ordinary diplomatic communications. But one machine was for top-secret material. It was a newer Western-made model that had been on the U.S. export prohibited list. But that hadn’t prevented its acquisition via an agreeable Middle Eastern exporting firm and its subsequent modification in a Moscow electronics lab. The U.S.-made hardware was more reliable than anything manufactured at home, the Raven reflected. But when it did break down, spare parts were a bitch.

  However, that wasn’t his problem. He was more interested in the data than the terminal. It was on this line that he had picked up a lot of the information he’d passed on to the Falcon. Until nine months ago his personal code of honor had restricted the exchange to material that wouldn’t damage his country’s own national security. That meant he’d stayed away from almost anything with military ramifications. But then he’d gotten a hint of something that could change the whole balance of world power.

  At first he had thought it was simply part of the extensive Soviet propaganda effort, the most effective tool of which was disinformation. Moscow had always prided itself on the creative use of half-truths and fabrications that were close enough to facts to sound plausible. The technique was used on every front. When Arkady Shevchenko had defected, he’d been smeared as an alcoholic and a womanizer to discredit his disclosures. After the accidental release of cyanide in Bhopal, India, TASS had rushed in to inform the world that the U.S. was testing deadly poison gas on a guinea pig community. And Moscow had even tried to scare black and oriental athletes away from the Los Angeles Olympics with a hate flier purportedly prepared by the Ku Klux Klan. At its most successful, this war of words had toppled whole governments. Even when the lies didn’t stand up to scrutiny, they cost the West millions of dollars to counteract the libel.

  The Raven stepped over a snake pit of heavy extension cords and cables, heading for the Western-made machine against the wall. Though the noise level always gave him a headache, at least it wasn’t like the comms center in KGB headquarters, where the operators lost fifty percent of their hearing within five years. But the clatter here, he reminded himself, was a mixed blessing. It meant that there was no one assigned to the room who might be looking over his shoulder.

  Quickly he began scanning the output of the last twenty-four hours for the information he hoped to pass to the Falcon. He was looking for references to material classified under the project name Topaz. The access was so tight, he doubted that even a dozen men knew the significance of the word.

  He’d always harbored a grudging respect for the power of a successful disinformation assault. But under Topaz the trickery promised to escalate from shaping opinion to manipulating the spending of U.S. defense dollars. The first Topaz reference on this communication link nine months ago had aroused his curiosity. The weeks had crawled by as he’d doggedly chipped slivers of information from the monolithic bureaucracy. Even though he still didn’t have the whole story, what he’d learned made his blood run as icy as the Volga River in the dead of winter.

  The scheme had been to trick the U.S. Defense Department into wasting billions of dollars by making the Western forces believe they had captured the nerve gas antidote Quadrozine. The Western commanders had snapped up the first part of the bait when they’d started making decisions based on “stolen” Soviet documents. The next phase of the operation had involved letting rebel forces in Afghanistan capture a Russian tank with syringes of the supposed antidote stashed inside. The Pentagon chiefs had been elated with the discovery and were now reconstructing their entire defense system around it. Now Moscow was getting ready to put the next step—whatever it was—into operation.

  He was so damn close to finding out the critical details. Yet, at the same time, he felt as though a noose were being lowered around his neck and slowly tightened. Sometimes in the middle of the night he could feel the rough hemp choking off his windpipe. The hunters were closing in, and his survival instinct urged him to abandon the search and defect. But the very reasons why he had begun this double life kept him coming back to the deafening clatter of the communications room every morning. If he could hold on till he got one more break, he’d really earn the welcome he knew the Falcon had waiting for him.

  Of course, he did have something. On a trumped-up trip back to Moscow, he’d photographed an initial planning memorandum that should stir up a bit of doubt in the Pentagon. That film was now sitting innocently with the other photographic equipment in his apartment. It would have been in the Falcon’s hands by now except for the tragedy at the San Jeronimo. The fact that they’d identified his contact made his situation even more desperate. The only stroke of luck was that he hadn’t actually been seen with the dead man.

  So how was he going to get that film to the Falcon now? And what if it came to a choice between getting the proof out or saving himself?

  He had reached the bottom of the pile of classified messages and was about to signal the guard to let him out when a piece of informal traffic addressed to General Dwayne Brewster at Torrejon Air Force Base caught his eye. It was from one of the general’s colleagues at the Pentagon and advised him of a surprise upcoming visit by the inspector general’s staff. There was nothing of particular importance in the communiqué except that it used the caution “Don’t put this one in your file.”

  That was one of th
e phrases he and the Falcon had used for identity verification back when his every action hadn’t been subject to examination under a microscope.

  He looked down at the white fanfold paper in his hand. The choice of words could be coincidental. Yet somehow he didn’t think so. This was coming in on the line that he had warned the Falcon his government was reading. Using the Soviet’s tap to send a message back to him was a form of poetic justice that would appeal to the director of the Peregrine Connection.

  After taking a precautionary glance at the door, he turned his back to it and pulled out a standard-issue KGB pen that contained a miniature camera. First he pulled the pocket clip forward to activate the hidden mechanism. Then he held the instrument over the communiqué and clicked the point return button twice before returning the pen to the breast pocket of his suit.

  The Raven picked up the stack of routine output he retrieved daily from the room and glanced around once more, assuring himself that everything was in order. Then he ran the buzzer alerting the guard that he was ready to return to his desk job.

  * * *

  THERE WAS SO MUCH KGB work to take care of that Aleksei often came to the office on Saturdays to deal with the normal duties of his cover job as cultural attaché. But he wasn’t the only one. A fair number of staffers had to put in weekend time. He was just going over the schedule of a Ukrainian folk dance troupe which would be arriving in Barcelona next month, when the phone rang. He wasn’t surprised that it was a summons from Bogolubov. When Aleksei entered the upstairs office, the general was sitting forward glaring at Feliks Gorlov and Georgi Krasin. “Well, Aleksei Iliyanovich, you seem to be the only one capable of following orders,” he observed.

  Aleksei took his seat without comment. A compliment from the general was like a two-edged blade. You never knew when you were going to get the other side of it.

  “You schoolboys,” he addressed the other two professionals in the room. “If you don’t do a better job on your homework, your next diplomatic assignments are going to be in Nicaragua and El Salvador.”

  Georgi covered his cringe by pretending to straighten his steel-frame glasses. Gorlov merely inspected his carefully manicured nails.

  “But we’ll discuss your shortcomings later. Right now I want to show you what Rozonov bagged last night at the theater where I sent him to make some observations.”

  “Not on the Spanish drama, I assume,” Gorlov murmured under his breath.

  The general either didn’t hear the remark or chose to ignore it. Sliding his chair back to reach in a drawer, he pulled out a black leather pocketbook and slapped it down on the polished surface of his desk as though it were exhibit A at an espionage trial. Even Aleksei looked surprised, although he recognized the black evening bag as the one the woman at the theater had been carrying. Apparently his phone call had inspired more than a simple surveillance. For a moment he felt a pang of regret. Then he reminded himself that he hadn’t gotten her into this. She’d done it herself as soon as she’d taken that seat.

  Bogolubov emptied out the contents of the purse onto the desk top with careless nonchalance. Reaching into the small pile of personal effects, he fished out a wallet and flipped it open, revealing a personal identification card. From across the room it was impossible to read the information, although Aleksei could see it was neatly printed.

  “I believe we’ve flushed out Eisenberg’s replacement. At least she showed up for a clandestine rendezvous that he’d set up before his accident.”

  Three sets of eyes were riveted on the comrade general. He paused and pulled a crisp manila folder out of the same drawer that had held the evening bag. “She’s a mid-level political specialist at the U.S. embassy named Julie McLean.” The general stumbled over the consonant that began her first name since there was no J sound in the Russian alphabet. “Her last tour of duty was in Moscow,” he added. “And who knows what kind of damage she did there.”

  Aleksei saw Georgi swallow convulsively as though the general’s supposition was causing him personal discomfort. Didn’t he see that the older man was just playing for dramatic effect? Americans in Moscow were watched more closely than bacteria under a microscope. He doubted there was much chance any of them could pull off an espionage coup. Still, he couldn’t help finding the information about Julie McLean’s last post interesting. The name fit her, Aleksei thought, remembering the way she’d looked standing with a glass of wine in her hand across that crowded theater lobby. Despite the circumstances, being able to put a name to her face brought him a surge of satisfaction.

  “The tour in Moscow means we’ve got a file on her,” Bogolubov was saying. “I’ve had a facsimile of selected pages sent from headquarters. The microfiche will arrive by diplomatic pouch.”

  He passed the sheets around and let the three men look them over. Aleksei quickly scanned the biographic material. Julie McLean was twenty-nine and single. A graduate of the Foreign Service school at Georgetown University. He raised an eyebrow at the notation on her uncle, Senator McLean, a hard-liner when it came to Soviet-American relations. Would he have encouraged his niece to become a spy?

  His eyes moved down the page. She’d attended public school in the elementary grades and then switched to a private girl’s academy. She’d been raised in Baltimore, a city he’d once visited when his father had been with the Soviet delegation to the U.N. He and his parents had taken the train down to watch a friendship tour by the Bolshoi.

  Gorlov was holding up a poor-quality facsimile of what looked like a newspaper photograph. “I think I met the woman,” he mused.

  Bogolubov gave him a direct look. “And?”

  “It was at one of the embassy nation-day parties—the German, I think. No, the French.”

  “I don’t give a pig’s teat which party it was. What did you think of her?”

  Gorlov was unfazed. “Polite but guarded. Not my type, really. You know how Western women are—not enough curves.”

  The general grinned and nodded before turning to Aleksei. “And your opinion?”

  A dozen details and perceptions leaped to mind as he remembered the green dress that had molded her slender but very appealing figure, the intelligence mirrored in her dark eyes, and the fear she’d struggled to suppress when she’d sensed his interest. “If she’s a spy, she’s new to the game.”

  “Why?”

  “She made too many mistakes.”

  “Like what?”

  “Using Eisenberg’s ticket in the first place. That was too big a risk. Or answering me in English when I spoke to her. But all that’s in my report.”

  Bogolubov leaned forward so that his double chin was resting against his fingertips. His expression was thoughtful. “Perhaps she wanted to convey a certain impression.”

  “To throw us off our guard,” Feliks Gorlov added, picking up the theme.

  “Or maybe she was floundering because Eisenberg hadn’t given her the name of his contact,” Georgi interjected.

  “Um.” The syllable, which might have signified agreement came from the general as he scooped up the contents of the black leather bag and returned it to his desk drawer. “The question is, can we use any of this information to our advantage?” he asked.

  “You mean turn her?” Gorlov said.

  “Too crude an approach. Besides, I suspect we only have one thing she might want.”

  “Money?” Georgi Krasin asked.

  The general snapped angrily. “You’re starting to believe all those Western news magazines. They’re not all motivated by greed.”

  Aleksei filled in the blank. “She needs to make contact with Eisenberg’s turncoat.”

  “The man who’s using the code name Raven,” Bogolubov added.

  “But we can’t use him for bait. We don’t know who he is,” Gorlov pointed out.

  “Not yet.” The general paused and looked around the room. “But I’m thinking of offering her a convincing substitute. And since she’s not Feliks’s type, and Georgi hasn’t had enough ex
perience for the job, I think we’ll try Aleksei Iliyanovich.”

  “You want me to pretend to be the Raven?” he clarified.

  “Possibly. Or maybe just a comrade interested in selling some information—or even defecting. Either way, McLean ought to jump at the opportunity, and you can use your charm to find out what she knows.”

  “Yes, Aleksei Iliyanovich would be a good choice,” Gorlov agreed, studying his colleague thoughtfully. “Wom- en respond to him, and he’s got an excellent command of the English language.”

  “Didn’t you spend several years in the U.S.?” Georgi asked, unable to disguise the tone of envy in his voice. Hard-line propaganda to the contrary, a posting in Washington or New York was coveted by Soviet diplomats.

  “Off and on, almost six.”

  “So you’ve got a pretty good handle on how they think,” Gorlov said.

  “Even in my father’s time we didn’t exactly mix freely with the natives.”

  “More than the rest of us.”

  “You don’t look pleased,” Bogolubov observed, addressing Aleksei. “What’s the matter? If you play it right you may get—what do the Americans call it?—a roll in the hay out of the assignment.” His use of the crude Western expression drew appreciative laughter from the other two men in the room.

  After they had left, Aleksei remained seated.

  Bogolubov raised his heavy-lidded eyes. “Yes?”

  “This is a rather unusual assignment, Comrade General.”

  “You’re not up to pretending to be the defector?”

  Aleksei gave his superior a measured look. “That’s not the issue. I gather you’re taking sole responsibility for this operation.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then that increases the risk to me personally. What if someone who doesn’t know about the operation misinterprets what I’m doing? What if they think I really am the Raven? My career could be destroyed, or I could end up as dead as Kiril Ivanov.”