Snark

by William L. DeAndrea

2

  BULANIN WAS FRUSTRATED.

  There was so much to keep track of when one made great plans. And great plans required great risks. But the peril of a great risk should be a dramatic, even a heroic failure. It should not find him sitting in his office with a scrambled telephone to his ear, being scolded like a schoolboy.

  Yet here he was, listening to Borzov speaking from his basement in Moscow. Lying to him to save his own neck.

  Did Bulanin realize that the supply of trained operatives was limited? That he could not divert them from their more important and legitimate function in Britain to satisfy some whim? Just what did he think he was doing?

  “Yes, Comrade Borzov,” Bulanin said. “I diverted them from their activities in the coal fields—”

  “Do not be specific!” Borzov said. The KGB chief’s voice was always high and somewhat nasal; when he was angry, he sounded like a kitten snarling.

  “This is a secure line, Comrade,” Bulanin assured him.

  “I know that. I also know that the Americans and the Japanese have new electronic miracles ready every day, and they implement them sometimes faster than we can appropriate the technology. If I had only been able to persuade the Chairman to turn the schools over to me—but never mind that. Explain.”

  Bulanin lit a cigarette, then put it out. Borzov would not be able to see what he was doing, and any pause would be interpreted as weakness or guilt. “Very well, Comrade. I diverted them, yes, but only in accordance with orders.”

  “I don’t remember giving orders of that kind.”

  Bulanin referred him to a document number, that of the order to kill Leo Calvin because of his failure during the Cronus operation in America.

  “Since that order carried a higher priority, and I had reason to believe that the subject could be found in a certain location, I sent the men to locate him.”

  “And you are telling me, then, that they did locate him, but failed to secure his cooperation?”

  Bulanin grinned. “Secure his cooperation,” he echoed. Borzov kept coming up with these charming euphemisms—he wondered if the man in the basement did it to keep himself from getting bored after forty years of ordering men killed. Or perhaps what passed for Borzov’s conscience had come to believe that what he was doing was “correcting the man’s ideological misconceptions” or “notifying him that his promotion had been denied.”

  “No,” Bulanin said, suddenly stern, in case the grin had been audible in his voice. “We could not—the operatives were not able to secure his cooperation. He proved to be more adamant and more immune to argument than I anticipated.”

  “More than I would have thought too, Comrade,” Borzov said. Bulanin had a sudden spasm of panic. He had never heard Borzov admit error before. Not even the suggestion of it. What did this mean? Was he forgiven? Or was Borzov trying to lure him into a false sense of security before the ax fell?

  “Still, we knew he was resourceful,” Borzov said

  “Yes, Comrade.” It was all Bulanin trusted himself to say.

  “Still, Comrade Bulanin, you sit in our Embassy. You are a diplomat. You must use your skills to the utmost. You must find resources in yourself greater than those of the man whose cooperation we wish to secure.”

  “I’ll do my best, Comrade Borzov.”

  “I know you will. You always do. And your other projects have brought us great pleasure here. That is why I know you won’t fail to make this man see reason.”

  “No, Comrade,” Bulanin said with the greatest sincerity. “I won’t fail.”

  “Good. If, for some unforeseen reason, the task remains unaccomplished, say, one month from today, perhaps I will have you fly back to Moscow to discuss the matter. We are not so old here that we have run out of ideas.”

  Bulanin rang off with the sound of Borzov’s famous laugh echoing in his ears.

  A servant of the Soviet State had to know how to read between the lines. How the positions of the members of the Politburo in the annual photograph reflected their relative power, and their chances at the top spot when the incumbent passed on. Exactly what a euphemistically worded order wanted you to do—a feat of interpretation much easier outside the Soviet Union itself than in it, a fact for which Bulanin was continually grateful. You had to know when to back a superior officer and when to undercut him.

  And you had to know where you stood.

  Bulanin had a clear idea of that last. Your other projects have brought us great pleasure. That, of course, referred to the current coal strike in Britain, now waning perhaps, but not before having wounded the British economy, damaged the rule of law, divided the people, and torn, as the newspapers liked to put it, the Fabric of Society. Bulanin had encouraged the strike; quietly, unobtrusively, but effectively. The men who had called the strike were not paid, conscious agents of the government Bulanin served, but they couldn’t have done more damage if they had been. Indeed, they would not have dared been so blatantly illegal and so openly dictatorial; they could never have been so bold about working contrary to the interests of the men they were supposed to represent. No, they were sincere, convinced Marxists, Lenin’s “useful idiots,” and they’d turned on their country on their own initiative, and of their own free will.

  All Bulanin had had to do was to nudge them toward the dream of being a hero of some kind of “British Revolution.” It was easy enough to infiltrate the picket lines, since miners were being sent all over Britain to intimidate those who refused to join a strike they’d never had a chance to vote for. And, if the confrontation happened to be on the edge of violence, it was a simple matter for one of Bulanin’s men to say the right words to get the first policeman to reach for his truncheon, and excuse any violence that might follow.

  And all the while, of course, the intelligence must be maintained; the dossiers must be kept. Some of the Britons behind the coal strike might be influential in the government someday. A man already convinced could very easily be converted to a man owned body and soul, if any.

  Bulanin could see why Borzov would be pleased with that project. And he could see, too, that Borzov had brought it up solely to let him know that his reward for it was not being required to report to Moscow immediately over the Leo Calvin fiasco. Bulanin knew that a man called home for consultation in circumstances like these somehow never returns to finish the work.

  It had been a pat on the back, but a pat on the back with a warning—the next hand that touches your back could have a knife in it.

  Bulanin put the ashtray and the crushed, unsmoked cigarette out of his sight. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. It was all so ironic. He did what he did—exacerbated the coal strike, conspired with the wretched Calvin for the capture of Lewis Alfot—all to serve Borzov, and the Politburo, and of course, the Chairman, in their move to weaken the West. To destroy it, if possible.

  To achieve his ambition, he had to do the best job possible. But Bulanin’s greatest fear was that he might succeed.

  Because, if the words said to him years ago by Borzov had given his ambition substance, his years in Washington and London had given it form. He would be Chairman of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. And when he was, he would make peace with the West.

  It was, he saw, the only way the Motherland, and the world, could survive. The United States had a tiny percentage of its people working to grow food, and mountains of surplus moldered in storage. Thirty-five percent of the Soviet people worked in agriculture (he might have quotation marks around his title, but functioning as “Agricultural Attaché” had taught him something), and still they depended on food from other nations to survive.

  Technological innovation was practically nil; as Borzov had come within a hair of conceding in so many words, the Soviet Union was dependent to a dangerous extent on industrial espionage to keep their industry anywhere near up-to-date. And the industry itself was all heavy machinery and military goods—the old men of the military had too much influence for things to be otherwise. The people of t
he Soviet Union had a lively black market in what little consumer goods were obtainable. American blue jeans. American phonograph records. American cigarettes.

  The army was too big, and kept getting bigger. Morale was bad. Alcoholism was endemic. They had been parked in East Germany for forty years, guns pointing to the West, and they were bored.

  There were things to be gained from the Americans, the British, the West Germans, the Japanese. Things to ease the lives of the people of the Motherland. Techniques to make work easier and more productive. Bulanin had seen them. He wanted them for his people. If he became Chairman (when, he told himself), he would see that his people got them. He would obtain for them the advantages of the West without the drawbacks—a pesty, obstructionist press, or confusing, energy-wasting multiple political parties.

  He did not try to tell himself it would be easy. He would have to “secure the cooperation” of many old men before he was through; he would have to change the habits of a whole generation.

  But it would be done. Leo Calvin had had his chance to live by helping put Bulanin in a position where it would be done sooner. He had failed; the chance was now gone. The plan was too important to let someone like Leo Calvin pose a danger to it.

  Bulanin buzzed for his secretary. In his mind, he started drafting instructions to his people to rid him of this untrustworthy American.

  3

  LEO CALVIN WAS PUZZLED.

  He read his newspaper as he sat in the coffee shop and waited for his lamb chop and chips and wondered where all the news was. The news that concerned him, that is.

  The waitress brought him the glass of water he’d asked for. She gave him a big smile and an exaggerated swing of the hip as she left him. She reminded him of Margaret, except, of course, for the sexy walk and the makeup. He could use a woman about now—not all of the tension he felt had to do with being in disguise and on the run.

  There was a huge hunk of lemon in the water, which would bump into his false moustache if he left it in there. He fished it out with his fingers, squeezed it thoroughly into the water, and placed it in the ashtray for want of a better place to put it. He took a careful sip, making sure the water stayed clear of his upper lip.

  Everybody in Oxford drank water with lemon in it, in an effort to disguise the rusty, stale taste. Or they steered clear of water altogether, a luxury that Leo at the moment couldn’t afford.

  Leo had come to Oxford for a number of reasons. The main reason was, no one expected him to be here. He was a fugitive from British justice. They would be expecting him to try to flee the country. The more Driscoll/Bellman had passed on to them about Leo’s past, the surer they would be that he’d try to leave Britain for someplace his face wasn’t so well known.

  And no matter what Bellman had told the British, Leo knew Bulanin would be thinking that way. So Leo knew that every airport would be watched, every dock. If no KGB agent happened to be there waiting for him (and Bulanin knew his disguise—Leo would have to come up with something else), the staff and security officers at each facility would have been made aware of his natural appearance—and you could never tell when someone might see through a disguise.

  In Oxford, no one would be looking for him. Oxford was near the headwaters of the Thames, which here was a stream you could almost wade across, right in the middle of Great Britain. You could go nowhere from Oxford except Wales, and that was no help for a fugitive from British justice.

  Furthermore, Oxford was a college town. The fact that parts of the University were something like nine centuries old had nothing to do with it. College campuses and college towns were all alike. Leo could function in a college town; in some ways, they were his natural habitat. He had learned to maneuver people and events on the American campuses of the sixties.

  So he wandered around. He spent a lot of time in Blackwell’s, an enormous bookstore, halls and stadia of books, adjacent to the University. It was warm there. People took him for a graduate student if they paid him any notice at all. He kept his mouth shut, so no one would know he was an American. He sat in the Bodleian sometimes, too, squeezed through the tiny wooden door carved into the enormous wooden door to the library, and sat down. That, though, he did sparingly—he didn’t want to get to be known to the point where someone would ask him what he was working on.

  In the evenings he went to pubs, a different one every night, again, to avoid regulars. He would sit in a corner and nurse a pint of lager until closing time. He did that because it was cheaper to buy the beer and enjoy the landlord’s heat than it was to shove fifty-pence pieces into an ugly gray box on the wall of his room anachronistically called a “shilling meter” to get a few minutes of gas heat.

  Leo had unavoidable expenses. He had to pay Benton, who served as his legs and muscle back in London. And he had to pay the other one, the secret one, who served as his eyes and ears in the enemy camp, and gave him the one edge he had.

  He spent the rest of his money, what little there was of it, on newspapers and one hot meal a day. And it was beginning to look as if he might as well save the newspaper money.

  The only news that related to him was the fact that Sir Lewis, in the guise of the Sussex Cyclops, was losing his touch—he tried some woman in a Brighton hotel, and had gotten her eye instead of her life. No information on the woman, which was surprising. The British press, Leo was learning, had no shame, and could not be muzzled. He was surprised they hadn’t offered the woman thirty thousand pounds and a glass eye to have a story called “MY ORDEAL SHOCK HORROR NIGHTMARE WITH THE CYCLOPS,” or something equally subtle.

  It was all very puzzling. Disturbing. Irritating.

  For instance, just how good was Bellman? He’d thwarted Leo’s Cronus operation; he’d twice escaped Leo-instigated, Bulanin-ordered death. When Leo had learned about that yesterday, he couldn’t believe it. He’d known he was in trouble with Bulanin, and nothing short of Sir Lewis could get him out of it, but he thought he’d at least be able to get the satisfaction of knowing Bellman was dead. But no, his eyes and ears assured him, Bellman was very much alive. And Leo was hanging out in pubs.

  Another big question was why the hell hadn’t the old maniac turned himself in? Leo was the only one who knew Alfot’s secret, and he was in no position to say anything about it. Sir Lewis could return home to a hero’s welcome. He could tell any story he wanted about his disappearance. He could do his side a world of good by saying he’d been kidnapped by the Russians, which was practically true. He could return to his cozy little cottage and be the people’s pride again. He could take that offer to head the commission looking into the Sussex Cyclops case, and spend six months to a year laughing his elderly balls off at the world in general, holding meetings, offering rewards, maybe committing another murder or two when things got dull.

  The puzzle—why the hell didn’t he?

  The waitress came with his meal. “Enjoy your dinner, love,” she told him.

  Leo smiled and nodded and said, “Cheers.” “Cheers” in this context meant “thank you.” It also could mean hello, goodbye, I understand, and here’s to you. Very useful when you were disguising an American accent.

  Leo reached for the square HP Sauce bottle and doused the chop and the chips. It made his moustache smell of tamarind for the rest of the day, but he didn’t care, he was hungry.

  Leo paused with the second bite to his lips, and put his fork back down on the plate. Maybe the old man couldn’t go home again. Maybe his former employees at the Section knew what he’d been up to.

  If that was the case, Leo wasn’t dead yet. There had to be an angle for him. Had to be. He picked up his fork again, took the lamb in his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully.

  4

  SIR LEWIS ALFOT WAS SAD.

  He leaned back against the pillows and watched the afternoon showing of Falcon Crest on ITV. Looked at it, rather. He’d given up on the plot. As far as he’d been able to make out, there was enough treachery, violence, and effing in the American wine industry
to keep the KGB, CIA, and his own people busy for months. No wonder he couldn’t stand their bloody wine.

  Even with the door closed and locked, he kept his wig on, and kept the bloody lumps in his cheeks. The door had no deadbolt, so the fellow who ran the place would be able to open the door with his passkey, if he had a reason to do.

  The lack of bolts on the doors had almost caused Sir Lewis, in his guise as a businessman from out of town, to reject staying here, but another feature of this place caused him to change his mind. Cloth. Everything bar the telly and WC was covered with some sort of thin cotton material, blue with a flower pattern—furniture, walls, even the windowsill. Probably made the place a damned deathtrap in case of fire, but he wasn’t concerned about fire.

  He was concerned about fingerprints. Fingerprints, for God’s sake.

  He was miserable with himself over it. All his experience, all his training of the best bloody British agents since the War, and when he launches a field operation of his own, he forgets about fingerprints. Never gave the matter a single thought.

  I must be going senile, he thought. I’ll be a drooling idiot before long. Whatever I’m going to do about this intolerable situation I’ve made for myself, I’d better get on with it, hadn’t I?

  The bit that really hurt was that it was his own people who caught him out, though there was a bit of pride mixed with the pain. But when they tried to ease him out without telling him why, they only made matters worse.

  Sir Lewis had known Robert would have a difficult time understanding the importance of this mission and Sir Lewis might not have been able to explain it to him properly in any event. It was extraordinary, that part of it. When Sir Lewis thought about it, it was clear; it was the mandate of the British character; it simply had to be done. But when he tried to show his reasoning to someone else, he got maddeningly tongue-tied and angry.

  The way he’d been angry at Felicity. It was a shame, what he’d had to do to that girl. No helping it, of course, but it still rankled. And that bloody fool of an American, blundering in before he had a chance to make sure of finishing the job, condemning poor Felicity to spend the rest of her life in actual possession of the blind eye the rest of the country suffered only figuratively. Lord knew she didn’t deserve it. Duty could be a rotten thing sometimes.