Black Gambit

by Clark, Eric

  And as for Parker, he would be better off than before. He would be got out of Moscow and Cory would ensure that he remained free.

  Once Cory convinced himself all this was true, he even began to feel sorry for Sunnenden.

  That was not easy. Throughout his life Cory, like all good intelligence men, had gloried in anonymity, of not seeking any public acclaim. For a man — no matter how ambitious — to risk an operation by behaving as Sunnenden had …

  But with his new calm Cory thought in time he might find some understanding for that too. What would he himself lose from all this? Really nothing. But Sunnenden? Cory had no doubt that even if the younger man survived he would no longer rise high inside government; too many people knew he had blown something even if they weren’t sure what it was.

  When Sunnenden did arrive, unexpected and unannounced in the mid afternoon, Cory was so anxious to appear sympathetic that it was some minutes before he heard the point of the visit.

  Sunnenden handed him a slip of paper.

  ‘I was told it would make sense to you.’

  The message was short. A man called Kovalev, travelling under an assumed name on a German passport, believed to be on his way to a secret meeting of terrorists, had diverted at Brussels and entered Holland.

  Out of habit, Cory began to tear the paper into small pieces.

  ‘Well, does it mean anything?’

  ‘It means,’ said Cory, wearily, ‘that it’s going according to plan.’

  He wasn’t through it. Perhaps he never would be.

  *

  The same message reached Scott.

  Despite what he had told Sunnenden, Scott was not going to risk ignorance at what was going on this time. So, secretly, he arranged direct to get copies of all reports to Sunnenden.

  In Scott’s case, though, because they came from one of his highly placed ‘young men’ within the Company, they were accompanied by explanation.

  The news was delivered to Scott by hand.

  He nodded appreciatively. It was working.

  His mind quickly reviewed what was happening and what was likely to happen.

  He made a sudden decision, there was just one more thing to do. He picked up the telephone and began dialling.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ZORIN WINCED at the light and checked the time. It was only 6.30 a.m.

  To relieve his tension he had drunk heavily the previous night. Now his hangover was coupled with anger at himself; he had been foolish to take the risk of drifting around bars near the hotel.

  Now he was suffering for it. At seven he eased himself out of bed and, naked, walked across to the windows. There was a narrow balcony with an iron rail and he stood for a minute, looking down on the tram queues, before heading for the shower.

  He turned it to cold. Afterwards he dressed slowly, studying himself in the mirror.

  He still had not become accustomed to the face that looked back: the cropped hair, the moustache. Somehow, desperately, he wanted to revert to his natural self; he had a strange feeling that only once that happened would he be safe.

  Tanya would be amused by the look, though. He had tried not to anticipate their reunion. Even to think of it seemed to tempt fate. He forced himself to the thought that this, finally, was the day.

  Downstairs he sat in the glass-enclosed terrace, looking out at the Amsterdam Stock Exchange, drinking bitter black coffee.

  He glanced through the International Herald Tribune. There had been a kidnapping in Ireland. Journalists were on strike in Rome. The Israelis and the Syrians were beginning their disengagement.

  One story he read carefully. President Nixon, speaking to the graduating class of the Naval Academy in Annapolis, had come out strongly against those who advocated using detente to force Russia to take a new attitude to dissidents and to Jews who wanted to emigrate.

  Zorin’s lips moved with the text: ‘We cannot gear our foreign policy to transformation of other societies’.

  Zorin pushed the paper aside. The things that were done in the name of detente. Or was it because of Watergate? The one possibility that never struck him was that the President could have been making his speech — as a gesture to Russia — partly in the light of Zorin’s own escape.

  *

  Normally on a Thursday morning at eight Daniel Raviv was still asleep. Lectures at the University of Amsterdam started late.

  But the previous night he had received a call asking if he could help out in the Release Center for an hour or two. There he shared a table with Egmond, helping fold appeals into envelopes. For one moment they were alone.

  ‘I think the time has come when you can help,’ said Egmond, hardly able to contain the boyish excitement in his voice.

  The meeting took place in the centre of Dam Square. Raviv was seated among the pigeons and the American hippies who had become a quaint part of Amsterdam culture but in reality could not leave because away from Holland they would lose their drug supplies.

  Raviv was slight, bespectacled and had a mop of dark curly hair. He had a scar across his right temple, not quite hidden by his hair. Sometimes he fantasized that it had happened in a fight in which, finally he had been victorious.

  In actuality he’d been tripped by another boy at school who thought Raviv cissy.

  Raviv was a Jew and an Israeli. He was also a Marxist who hated the idea of Zionism and felt shame at the plight of the Palestinians. One day, after hearing Egmond arguing the Palestinian case with obvious passion, he had sought to catch Egmond alone and had then told him how much he agreed.

  From that it had been one stop to being asked if he would help if it ever proved necessary. It had also been impressed upon him that, in the meantime, the best way he could aid the cause was to hide his true feelings.

  The man who approached him was, Raviv decided, probably Lebanese. Speaking as though Raviv’s agreement to co-operate was a foregone conclusion, he explained that they needed Raviv to make a short return trip to Israel.

  ‘There are some reports,’ he explained, ‘that must be delivered to our friends working under cover there. The papers look innocuous enough, but it is vital nothing is suspected. That is why we would prefer someone with an Israeli passport. What better reason for flying to Israel than one is going home?’

  Raviv said nothing but his heart had begun to pound with excitement — a chance to help the cause, and an opportunity to gain a position of respect.

  ‘Will you do it?’ the man asked at last.

  Raviv basked in the note of concern in the man’s voice. They needed him!

  He looked around the square, purposely delaying replying in order to gain the maximum pleasure from the moment. His look took in the Amsterdamers enjoying the sun, the tourists busily photographing him — the hippies. The puritan in him shuddered.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course.’

  *

  At eight Kovalev was still asleep. Thirty minutes later he was wakened by the floor waiter with his breakfast. He ate hungrily, staring at the case. He pulled it towards him. A few hours before it looked all right, but what was it like in the light of day? He examined the lining, weighed it in his hand. He had done a good job.

  Just before nine he received a telephone call. The shortage of time had limited the precautions that could be taken. ‘I’m sorry to bother you so early,’ said Van Louden, ‘but I thought I should let you know that the artist agrees to your terms.’

  ‘Good. I am most grateful. Perhaps I could collect the painting?’

  ‘But of course,’ replied Van Louden. ‘Would the gallery at 9.30 be too early?’

  *

  It would have been more natural for Raviv to take the bus to the airport, but the man who had met him in Dam Square insisted he be driven. They wanted some time to brief him.

  The mechanics were simple. He should wait until 10.30, follow the fat man into the post office and change cases with him. All he had to do then was take the flight and await further orders.

&nb
sp; Van Louden, however, could not help extending the briefing. Raviv was an unknown quantity and without alarming him Van Louden wanted to ensure that he did not make any elementary mistakes. It would be disastrous if he were picked up at the airport.

  The bomb would probably get through the guards. But both he and Kovalev knew that more potential hijackers or murderers were picked up because of their behaviour than because of what they carried.

  A brief car journey did not allow much time, but it did provide a chance for the most basic guidance.

  Van Louden did not do it himself. He decided against using Egmond or the Lebanese who had propositioned Raviv in the square — both were known to hold radical views and he did not want the risk of the student being spotted arriving at the airport with either of them.

  Instead he used a lecturer at the university, a Dutchman in his mid thirties, not known for his revolutionary beliefs. Raviv recognized him — but only as a teacher. His surprise was visible.

  The lecturer explained to Raviv that he was not the only courier booked on the flight. He showed Raviv a Polaroid picture of Zorin, taken earlier that morning ostensibly by a tourist snapping the street as Zorin left his hotel. ‘This is the man,’ he said. ‘You are to show no signs of recognizing him, but you must stay close to him on the aircraft. It’s a flight where they don’t allocate seats in advance — passengers sit where they can — so you won’t have that worry. Sometime before you arrive at Lod airport, he will pass you more instructions.’

  The student listened intently, his excitement increasing with each new instruction. It was like being initiated into some secret society. By being briefed he was becoming someone special.

  Then, as instructed, the man carefully checked Raviv’s clothes and luggage: was it suitable for the flight destination? Was the luggage sufficient for the kind of trip that Raviv was ostensibly making? Many hijackers were caught because they paid no regard to these obvious points.

  Then he gave Raviv a half dozen easily remembered pieces of advice. All of them had resulted from detailed research both in the USSR and in the United States — where the researchers were not only good but were also kind enough to publish their work in technical journals.

  ‘I won’t tell you to behave naturally,’ said the man, ‘because that’s impossible. But we want you to avoid these few things.’

  He listed them. Raviv was not to stand close to walls or pillars while waiting for his flight (a giveaway to security men that he wanted to hide) Nor should he move constantly round the shops and telephone booths. If anyone wanted to search his case he should not appear over-eager to help. Nor should he worry if they examined any of the papers inside. They would stand up to physical scrutiny; unless they were examined in a laboratory, where the microdots would be revealed, they would simply seem like university papers.

  Nor, Raviv was told, should he ask a lot of questions about the flight — again an action that alerted security men.

  The short briefing finished, the man began asking questions, checking Raviv’s understanding of what he had said. Finally, as the car neared the airport, he nodded. He was satisfied.

  *

  The architect who designed Schipol airport decided it should be painted grey and white: the people, he said, should supply the colour.

  Kovalev added his own colour to the scene that morning, Thursday, June 6. He wore blue trousers, a pale blue shirt, and a bright check sports jacket, all brand new.

  He carried the fibre-glass travel case somewhat gingerly. The chances of an accidental explosion were small, the mixture was stable. But explosives always made him nervous.

  He had bought a ticket for Madrid and once past passport control and customs, he settled down in the departure lounge to watch the Post Office. It was little more than a counter selling stamps, run by one man who also worked a switchboard controlling calls from a line of telephone booths.

  Kovalev had arranged the meeting with Raviv for as late as possible before the student had to make his way to the departure bay.

  At 10.30 he walked to the Post Office desk and said he wanted to make a local call. He was directed to box number three and told to dial direct.

  He leaned against the wooden partition separating him from the next booth. His call was to the hotel. While he waited for the switchboard to connect him with reception, he placed his case flat on the floor.

  Reception answered. No, they told him, there were no messages.

  As he thanked them, Kovalev saw Raviv arrive with a case identical to the one he carried, except for a red luggage tab.

  The student passed and took the next booth.

  Kovalev quickly glanced around to check no one could see — and brought his heel down hard on the handle of his case. He lifted it and shook it. Inside, he heard the fragments of glass rattle. The acid was now free to start eating through the rubber.

  He waited for a few seconds and walked out, leaving his case on the floor.

  ‘Is this your bag?’ said the youngster, holding out a case.

  ‘Oh yes, thank you. I’m always forgetting things.’ Kovalev tore off the red tag as he walked towards the desk to pay for the call.

  *

  Zorin also arrived early. He had not wanted to but was afraid of missing the airplane.

  His hangover had settled down to a faint heaviness. At the airport he welcomed the bustle and the anonymity of the crowds. He had to join a small queue to pass the border guards. One took his passport and handed it back without even looking up. Zorin was through into the departure lounge.

  He killed some time by walking to the magazine and book stall. A photograph of a woman ballet dancer on the cover of one periodical reminded him of Tanya. He hurriedly bought a copy of Time and walked away.

  The longing to be with Tanya was frightening in its intensity. He experienced that terrible feeling, triggered by flying, that he would never make it.

  He felt a great desire to buy her something. The act of buying would be an act of faith — an expression of a certainty that he would be with her again soon. And something for the baby? Or was that tempting fate too much? While he had tried not to think of Tanya, he had tried doubly hard not to dwell on her pregnancy. He wanted freedom; he wanted her; and he wanted children.

  He walked into the duty free shop and began wandering among the shelves.

  Perfume, it had to be perfume.

  He examined bottle after bottle; he tried to remember her tastes in Western perfumes. Someone had once given her Femme and he remembered she had liked that. But when she went abroad herself she had bought something different. He could not quite remember. Was it Guerlain? He thought perhaps it was. The bottle had the same elaborate shape.

  The choosing became a complex problem. He let it take over from his fear and other emotions. Picking the right perfume became the most important thing.

  Someone was pushing him, trying to get past. He started.

  Back to reality. He decided on Dior. He bought it together with Dutch gin in an ornate bottle and two boxes of Carl Upmann Blues. He paid and watched the girl at the cash desk stamp his green boarding card.

  Carrying his bag he walked back into the lounge. There was still time to kill. He walked around the lounge.

  On impulse, he bought a tiny teddy bear, no more than perhaps three inches high, from a stand of toys at the newspaper stall. Almost embarrassed, he pushed it into his pocket. The dull feeling had given way to one of tense nervousness. He sidled close to the pillars. Surely the man in the blue suit had been watching him for the past few minutes. Zorin tried to glance without making it apparent. Yes, the man was looking; now he was coming towards him. Zorin felt his hands tighten, felt the sickness in his stomach. A woman and small child crossed in front of Zorin. The man grasped the child’s hand, and the three began to walk towards a departure gate.

  10.35 — almost time for the call. He watched the monitor screens. He realized he was smoking without remembering he had lit a cigarette. A drink? He knew he was
being stupid. A drink would help. He went over to the bar and ordered a large brandy and then stood almost reluctant to drink it once the glass was in his hand.

  First the message was in Dutch, then in Hebrew, finally in English. ‘Flight KL525 is now boarding at gate C38 …’

  He waited five minutes until he heard an announcement of the final call, then downed his brandy and walked towards C pier.

  Unlike the pier he had used on his arrival, C pier had no moving walkway. There were seats in the middle and on the sides, and low partitions that divided off departure areas for individual flights. C38 was right at the end. Zorin passed building work going on for a fourth pier.

  He showed his boarding pass and was allowed through into the sealed off section. The flight was almost full: 207 passengers stood and sat waiting to be checked.

  The check was taking a long time. There was a group of Hassidic Jews with their full beards and ear curls who came in for special scrutiny — what better disguise? One began to argue. A plain-clothes guard came forward and asked a quick series of questions in Hebrew. The answers seemed to satisfy him and he nodded to guards to clear them.

  Zorin felt near-hysteria envelop him. Travelling by underground railway or crossing a bridge over a river there was sometimes a magnetic draw to jump. He felt a similar emotion now. He found himself wanting to step forward and confess, ‘My name is not Leonard Rose. I am not an American. I am Alexandrai Leonidovich Zorin. You think I am in Moscow, but I am here …’

  He joined the queue. The guards were thorough. Each passenger had to open his baggage. Then it was X-rayed. There was a body search, for most a quick frisk but for a few a more thorough check behind a screen.

  The guard opened Zorin’s box of duty-free gin, asked him his nationality, stared at his face for a few long moments. Then he was through. On to the enclosed ramp and the stretched DC8.