This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1995 by The Cobbett Corporation
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Safire, William.
Sleeper spy / William Safire.—1st ed.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-79979-1
I. Title.
PS3569.A283S54 1995
813′.54—dc20 95-8482
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Part One The Searchers
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part Two The Impersonation
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Part Three The Sleeper
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Epilogue
Dedication
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
BARBADOS
He was free.
Never before in his long career, first in the KGB and now in the Russian Federation’s Security Ministry, had the control agent felt himself beyond the reach of Moscow’s arm.
But now the document freeing him lay on the coffee table of a bungalow on the leeward side of the island. From the porch, looking west into the sunset, he could see the landing lights and faintly hear the approach of the evening flight from America. Berensky, the sleeper agent now acting under his direction, would be at the bungalow within an hour.
“Tragic crash near Odessa has taken the lives of the chief of the Fifth Directorate and his deputy,” read the decoded fax message. He had been ordered to return to Yasenovo, on the outskirts of Moscow, for urgent consultations. A new economic intelligence chief would have to be appointed and briefed.
Control had a good idea who the new man at the top of the Fifth was likely to be: one of the brilliant young academics, all good looks and meager experience, brought in by the reformers after Yeltsin put down the old guard’s attempt at a coup. Their youth did not bother Control; he was a veteran agent; Aleksandr Shelepin himself, the KGB chief who had led the “anti-Party plot” to oust Khrushchev in the old days, was not yet forty when he took over at KGB headquarters in Dzerzhinsky Square. What troubled Control was the ready recognizability of their faces.
Nikolai Davidov’s face, for example. Davidov was the most probable choice to take over as director of economic intelligence. He had the dark good looks and square jaw of an American television anchorman. What kind of face was that for a spymaster? Control thought the best face for espionage should exhibit a bland forgettability, much like Control’s own visage: professionally nondescript, a scowl not especially threatening, a countenance easily overlooked. A face to put people to sleep.
He ran the tip of his tongue along the thin lips of that face, savoring the delicious fact that not one of the new crowd in Moscow knew what Control knew: the identity of the sleeper agent who had been planted a generation ago in America. Someone in the bureaucracy surely had a general idea of Berensky’s work from Control’s guarded reports, and a few of the old-timers with long memories of Shelepin’s day might even know the sleeper’s Russian background. A banker in Bern and an economist in Helsinki who were in on the launch of the sleeper’s activation and assignment—to invest the assets of the KGB—might know, though they dealt through Control and only indirectly with the sleeper. But nobody now alive at headquarters in Yasenovo had had, up to now, any need to know the sleeper’s American identity. The current name and address of the sleeper was the best-kept secret in the KGB.
Now, with the old Fifth director and his deputy both dead in the crash, and with all files on Aleksandr Berensky long ago deliberately destroyed to prevent his discovery by CIA penetrators, only Control and one other Russian agent were aware of the sleeper’s name and whereabouts, his mode of operation, and the scope of his assignment. Control allowed himself to savor the miserly pleasure that comes to political insiders, secretive scientists, art thieves, enterprising journalists, and professional spies: the sense of early, exclusive possession of invaluable information.
He walked inside the bungalow to one of the two bedrooms, opened his suitcase, and felt gingerly for the two old record albums he had obtained as soon as he received the news of the crash and Moscow’s order that he return.
He asked himself: Who else knew who the sleeper was? In the field, one other Russian agent knew Berensky’s American name and legend. But that agent, who had penetrated the U.S. government and was supplying information to fuel the sleeper’s financial engine, was also Control’s responsibility. The two men, sleeper and mole, reported only to Control. He was certain neither had any other point of contact with the KGB. He wished now that he had never let the two get into contact with each other, but that had been unavoidable; the sleeper needed to have immediate access to financial data from the mole, and Control could not always be available as go-between.
For four years, Control had been given no other assignment than to run these two agents. The sharp focus of this assignment was unusual at a time of tightened budgets at the Kremlin, but was a measure of how vital to the Russian state the directorate deemed the success of the sleeper’s unprecedented operation.
The album covers were between his shirts. The Bruch Second Violin Concerto played by David Oistrakh and “Songs for Swingin’ Lovers” by Frank Sinatra. He reached inside each album cover and extracted the two flat, round sheets of plastic explosive.
The material was not Semtex, manufactured in the Czech Republic and retailed by Libyan middlemen to terrorists; Control wanted no part of such a provenance. This was Composition D, made in the U.S. for military use, said to be more malleable and reliable.
From his wallet, he took out an instruction sheet on how to mold the plastic explosive, install the detonation device and its timer, and fix it in place. This was not properly Control’s line of work, but he was certain it should not be beyond the capability of a resourceful agent, even one long once-removed from direct operations. He reread the instructions and followed the first step to s
tretch and mold the two pieces of black plastic into the single two-foot length he desired.
Would Berensky want to join him in taking advantage of the deaths at the top of the Fifth Directorate? Would he agree to redirect the plan? Holding the plastic in both hands, Control paused to ponder. Even before Berensky was given a huge stake in gold and had begun to receive closely held financial information a few years ago, the sleeper had become a successful banker in America; he understood the mysteries of money; he moved vast sums of other people’s assets around in lightning trades.
On the other hand, Berensky—Control thought of him in his Russian, not his American identity—was the dedicated disciple of his father, a KGB chief who was such a stern ideologue that he had sent his son to live a lifelong lie behind enemy lines a generation ago. It troubled Control that the sleeper might be afflicted with notions of loyalty to the new regime now in power, or—even worse—with dreams of supplanting that regime with the old KGB faction once headed by his father.
If Berensky refused to take the money and go into private business with Control, there was always the banker in Bern to fall back on for his expertise. But Berensky would be better.
Control now wished he had taken the time to know the sleeper better. Belatedly, he judged himself deficient in tradecraft for not being able to determine the motivation of an agent given such trust. But Aleks Berensky had never been a confiding soul; in all their meetings over the five years after Aleks was activated, the tall, heavyset man had seldom smiled, had rarely grown openly angry. He remained unperturbed, as a gambler or a banker should, even in those rare cases when the economic intelligence Control provided him was mistaken and caused him serious losses.
Following the directions on the sheet, Control pressed the detonator shaft into the plastic explosive. Berensky was the name given to the bastard son of the KGB director Shelepin, but the sleeper was his father’s son. Berensky was a Shelepin to the bone. Purposeful above all.
What else would possess a young man to leave his pregnant wife behind forever, to train for years in the KGB’s American Village to pass for an American, and then to insinuate himself into an alien society, never revealing himself until called upon to betray the trust he had built up for a generation? Control had run spies that were in the business for the money—by far the most reliable motivation—or for the thrill, or were driven by some burning theology, or because they had been entrapped and turned. But all those spies had the comfort of continuity of contact; steadying their psyches was the reassurance of a regular series of transactions, made personal by the lifelong security of their own control agents.
Not the sleeper. For nearly twenty years, he had been all alone and unreached-for. He had never been called upon for any espionage and was not permitted to contact his motherland for advice or encouragement. His permanent home was in the enemy’s house. A sleeper was an intelligence agency’s longest-term investment, never to be risked for transitory gains. This particular sleeper was like a time bomb attached to a generational calendar rather than a clock.
Control reminded himself that the explosive detonator in his hand was to be attached to the small quartz-driven clock in the kit. He consulted the instruction sheet again, clicked the timer into the detonator, and checked the hour against his own watch: 7:00 P.M. He set the clock for 11:00 P.M. and pressed the assembled device into the lengthened plastic. It drooped in the middle when he held it in both hands, but he found the answer to that in the instruction sheet: mold the plastic to the object to be exploded.
He went through the bathroom to the bedroom that did not have his suitcase on the bed. The last time they met on this island, Berensky had expressed a desire for the room with the view of the nearby hotel casino rather than of the ocean, and was asleep by ten. He would have his favorite room again.
Control slid on his back under the bed and pressed the length of the Composition D around the rod stabilizing the innerspring mattress. He jiggled the detonator and clock to make sure they were wedged in securely. As a fail-safe, as the instruction sheet suggested, he rigged the switch so that he would have to come into the room and reach under the bed to activate the timer. He would do that during a break in their meeting, only if the sleeper failed to grasp the private financial opportunity that lay before the two of them. If Berensky would not be his partner, the sleeper would lie down on his well-wired mattress for his final sleep. And then Control would take a long walk on the beach, in a safe position to observe the fireworks.
The sleeper paid off the taxi at the entrance to the hotel, waited for it to drive away, and did not enter the lobby to check in. He hefted his garment bag and chose to walk the five hundred yards down a dark gravel road to the farthest guest cabin.
Berensky did and did not enjoy his meetings with Control. The wiry little man was the point of contact with his authentic existence; that was good, after the long two decades of operating totally detached from his roots. Control was the place to put questions to the KGB mole in Washington—what would the Commerce Department announce was the GNP deflator on Friday?—and through him, as cutout, to an agent he did not know in New York—what commodity price was the Federal Reserve most closely watching this month? Control was the conduit for answers that would determine his investments of the fortune, in coming weeks. And he was the veteran agent who had slipped outside KGB channels to bring Berensky a personal farewell from the sleeper’s natural father, Shelepin, before that giant of espionage had died in obscurity and disgrace.
The part Berensky did not enjoy was systematically deceiving the new leadership of the KGB. Not that Berensky was afflicted with scruples; with his bloodline, he was aware that deception was bred in the bone. But if Control were to learn the actual size of the fortune he had amassed in the past five years, that intelligence would surely cause the Kremlin—in desperate need of hard currency—to trigger a premature conclusion to his enterprise.
Berensky felt the time was not yet ripe to cash in; the political forces within Russia had not come to a decisive turn. A challenge to the Moscow regime was imminent; an underground organization, which might better serve Berensky’s political purpose, was spreading and strengthening. Because the sleeper could not yet be sure which faction he would support—government or underground—he kept a separate set of books with low, yet credible, figures. That is what he had in a section of his garment bag, to show Control.
“Good evening, Mr. Seymour.” Control changed his code name on the tenth day of every month, going down the list of New York State governors. He was up to Horatio Seymour. The system struck Berensky as silly, but it was not for him to criticize the tradecraft of longtime operatives. He did not know Control’s real name, and when they were together, preferred to call him Control rather than that month’s gubernatorial code name.
“I have news for you, Aleks.”
“The Fed’s interest rate decision?” He walked into his bedroom and threw the garment bag on the bed. He flicked on the light in the adjoining bathroom, peed, splashed water on his face, and brought the towel back into the living room, rubbing his face dry. “I could make a killing with that.”
“Bigger news. This.” The veteran agent, a polo shirt over his bony frame, leaned across the coffee table and handed Berensky the printout of a fax message.
Berensky read the news of the plane crash and shrugged. “They come and they go. Too bad. Bomb aboard?”
“No, I think this was a genuine accident. It will affect you and me, but I will come to that in a moment. Your report, please.”
Berensky handed over the one-page summary of the trading done by a portion of his network of brokers. It showed a fortune that had grown to $13 billion.
“Bottom line, we made a profit of six hundred million dollars in the past quarter. It’s in the Antilles bank, and we’re using it to buy oil tankers.”
“Not good enough. You’re slowing down.”
Berensky let himself seem to bridle, but did not argue; his actual profit in the quarter
had been $2 billion on a real fortune of $30 billion. “I’m only as good as the information you get me. You have the data I asked for last time?”
Control nodded but did not hand anything over. “Let me see the disposition of the present assets.”
Berensky showed him the placement of the $13 billion he was prepared to show the KGB: banks, account numbers, holding companies, corporate fronts, all accessible only to the sleeper and the lone person he reported to.
Control rose and put that in his briefcase, then went to the kitchenette for coffee. “You want a shot of rum in your coffee? It’s the local custom.”
The sleeper disliked rum, but went along. Control apparently had something on his mind beyond the normal information exchange.
He set down the coffee cups. “Aleks, the significance of the message from Moscow is that you are now a complete mystery to the KGB.”
“You are the KGB,” Berensky countered.
“True, for the time being. But except for me, nobody in the organization knows who you are. Nobody knows what the size of the fortune is, and frankly, I have been conservative in my reports.” He made a gesture with his hands as if removing handcuffs. “You are an independent operative. Do you have any idea what that means?”
“You’re suggesting we abscond with the money.”
Control looked pained. “That would be foolish. They would find me and kill me, after getting your name from me. And it would be—” he searched for the word—“dishonest.”
Berensky remained silent, awaiting the proposal.
“You were entrusted, years ago, with three billion dollars in gold bullion,” the veteran began. “This was the money in the treasury of the KGB, along with certain overseas holdings of high members of the Party.” He sipped his rum and coffee. “I suggest we return to the Russian Federation a return of one hundred percent on its investment—six billion in dollars, which is about what they think it is today. They will be ecstatic. You will be a hero.”
“And what’s to be done with the rest?”
“You are familiar with the Feliks organizatsiya?”
Berensky knew that many of the ousted apparatchiks, along with hard-liners in the KGB forced out after the coup attempt, had formed a loose alliance with the new-rich Russian mafiya and Chechen and Ingush patriot-hooligans. When these groups fell in with the longtime underworld—the vorovskoy mir, “society of thieves,” that had operated before and after Bolshevism—the amalgam of criminals, corrupt bureaucrats, and crooked entrepreneurs had chosen the name “Feliks” after Feliks Dzerzhinsky, founder of the Cheka, the predecessor of the KGB. What Berensky did not know was whether the purpose of the new community of crime was simple greed or the ultimate seizure of political power.
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