Pale Blue

by Mike Jenne

  Federov was terribly concerned, so much so that he ached in the pit of his stomach. In the month he had been assigned at Kapustin Yar, he had completely reorganized the Internal Security Office’s surveillance operations, but his carefully drawn net had yielded no fish. He had endured countless hours of painstakingly analyzing surveillance films and photographs, but he hadn’t yet uncovered anything even remotely suspicious.

  He clenched his fists and groaned. He was absolutely convinced that some traitorous malcontent was passing secrets to enemies of the State, and he would remain steadfast at his station until he found the culprit, but the question remained how long he would be allowed to pursue the task.

  His superiors at the Aquarium were demanding results, and he had nothing to show for his efforts. It was only a matter of time before he was called back to Moscow—yet again—and his return would not be triumphant. There would be no glorious posting to the Bureau of Special Cooperation; in fact, he would be fortunate if he wasn’t dispatched to some miserable gulag in Siberia. It was true: if he wasn’t successful here, then he might spend the remainder of his military career guarding political prisoners. Or worse, he might find himself huddling with the hungry wretches within the frozen wire, looking out instead of in.

  This whole episode was an incredibly frustrating experience. To a large extent, his hands were fettered, since he was only permitted to monitor the scientists and engineers in the residential area located within the cosmodrome. He had repeatedly demanded authority to conduct surveillance in the work areas and test sites, but his requests were met by steadfast resistance. If his bosses really wanted results, why didn’t they give him full rein to do those things that needed to be done?

  It was late, and his eyes ached from scrutinizing film, but he vowed to relentlessly study the materials until he uncovered a clue. Of the ten men suspected by the GRU, only the four currently stationed at Kapustin Yar were still being investigated. To use his time effectively, Federov would intensely focus on one subject at a time. Since he might be at this for days, he decided to concentrate his initial efforts to eliminate the least likely suspect, Major General Yohzin of the RSVN, before he moved on to the other three potential culprits.

  Early in their investigation, the Internal Security Office had considered Yohzin as their most likely suspect, primarily because of his previous affiliations with German rocket scientists, but the cloud of suspicion had largely passed away from him. Yohzin was the picture of anyone but a despicable traitor. The general labored like a tireless automaton; he normally worked seven days a week and rarely took a day off. He and his wife didn’t socialize with other couples. His two boys diligently applied themselves to their academic studies; they were so dedicated to their books that they didn’t even participate in sports or games.

  Once he came home from work, he only emerged—usually with his spouse—to walk his dog. Throughout the course of their walks, Yohzin made no furtive gestures, and his hands were always clearly visible. And that was the principal reason that Federov wanted to quickly eliminate him as a suspect and move on to the others. Federov had an innate proclivity for catching people in the act of passing secret messages, and he knew that it was virtually impossible to pass a message except by either handing it to someone else or physically placing it in an intermediate location—a dead drop—where it could be later retrieved. He had studied the films of Yohzin for hours, and the general did neither. Likewise, he had watched films of Yohzin’s wife, Luba, as she went to the market and other locations during the day, and it was clear that she was not passing messages on his behalf.

  As a high-ranking officer, Yohzin was able to travel more frequently than most, so there was always the possibility that he somehow passed messages when he and his family occasionally went to Moscow. Consequently, the GRU had subjected them to intensive surveillance while there—literally deploying squads of counterespionage agents to shadow the general and his family—but none of them had done anything even the least bit suspicious.

  Yawning, Federov threaded an 8-millimeter film into a hand-cranked editing machine, which would allow him to examine the film frame by frame, if need be. Yohzin was so uncompromising in his routine that it was painfully boring to watch the films. It was more monotonous than watching potatoes grow.

  He taped a large sheet of graph paper to a table. Using a red pencil, he painstakingly mapped the route of the Yohzins’ evening stroll. Once he had defined the couple’s predictable circuit, he went into the next step of his analysis. He would watch the films of other subjects—people entirely unrelated to Yohzin or the other three suspects—to look for the intersection, the point at which Yohzin’s path coincided with someone else. If Yohzin was passing messages—which Federov strongly doubted at this point—the intersection would be the place where the message drop would be found.

  Through the night, he cranked through film after film. He could only imagine the exorbitant cost of this project, which had been in full swing long before he arrived on the scene. Thousands of rubles must have been expended solely to purchase and process the seemingly endless library of movie films. If nothing else, if the project was audited, he should not have to account for those expenditures.

  In the wee hours of the morning, he was studying one of the last individuals who routinely traversed the commons area where Yohzin daily walked his dog. The subject was an elderly woman who was brought here to clean the domiciles of several high-ranking officers. A war widow from Minsk, she lived alone in a servant’s room in the attic of one of the apartment buildings. Illiterate and somewhat feeble-minded, a stranger in a place where strong intellect was so greatly prized, she kept mostly to herself. Reviewing the report that accompanied the films, Federov noted that the maid did not clean the Yohzins’ apartment, nor did she have any contact with the other three suspects.

  Not one to leave a stone unturned, Federov sat down at his desk and steeled himself for the task. Once he cleared the maid, he could turn his attention to someone other than Yohzin. Through his window, the rosy glow gave notice that the new day was arriving. He groaned, rubbed his weary eyes, and slowly turned the crank to study the film.

  Like Yohzin, the housekeeper was a creature of highly engrained habit. Also like the general, she routinely worked seven days a week. Once leaving her meager quarters—bearing a mop, broom and pail—she went from one apartment to the next, rarely emerging into the daylight until her day was done.

  Like most servants, especially the most accomplished at their humble duties, the old woman was essentially invisible, but for one minor exception. Every day, roughly at noon, she walked into the commons area, sat on a concrete bench, and ate her simple lunch. Federov studied her actions carefully; in this instance, the bench was such an obvious place for to conceal a message drop, but while the housekeeper was seated at the bench, her hands were always in plain sight. Besides, in all of the films he had studied, Yohzin and his wife had never occupied the same bench.

  After the housekeeper finished her lunch, she habitually tore apart a scrap of bread and cast out a handful of crumbs to feed the doves. As he spooled through the films, watching the crone’s identical actions from day to day, Federov felt almost like ripping out his eyes out of sheer boredom. After innumerable iterations, he knew exactly how she untied the faded kerchief in which she wrapped her meal, and how she anxiously glanced from side to side before turning down her face to offer thanks for her blessings.

  Straining to keep his eyes open, he was on the verge of moving on to one of the other suspects when he saw it, a gesture so subtle that it surely would have escaped the attention of anyone who lacked his highly refined powers of observation. On one of the films, after the maid threw out her crumbs to the pigeons, she stood up, slowly walked out a short distance into the grass, and then crouched down to pick up something. Federov gasped in astonishment; in his impatience, he had almost missed it.

  He rummaged through the batch of reels that documented the housekeeper’s activities
, examining each film in turn, quickly advancing to the segment where she fed the pigeons before going back to work, and determined that she only took her abbreviated post-lunch stroll on one specific day of the week—Saturday—and each time, she knelt in the very same manner at the very same spot in the grass.

  Grinning, he scrutinized his hand-drawn map of Yohzin’s daily walk; he had identified the intersection, the key piece to the puzzle, so all that remained was to patiently find and assemble the rest of the pieces. At this juncture, he had due cause to haul Yohzin and the maid in for interrogation, but what fun would that be? There was so much more to be gained if he bided his time and played his cards carefully. The Bureau of Special Cooperation would be his; he knew it, as surely as the sun was now rising over the steppes.

  Federov heard the door open in the outer office and knew that his desk sergeant was reporting for duty. The sergeant was the same man that he had brutally punched when he first arrived at Kapustin Yar. Despite his slovenly appearance, the hefty sergeant had proven to be quite an effective organizer and record-keeper, so Federov had elected to keep him here at the office, working at his same tasks, rather than putting him on permanent detail as a latrine orderly or stable minder.

  Invigorated by his momentous discovery, Federov shoved open the door and strolled out of his office with a triumphant air. Perching a pot of water on a paraffin burner, the sergeant almost fell over as he looked up.

  “Pull everyone in this morning,” ordered Federov. “We’ll meet in an hour.”

  Snapping to attention and throwing his best salute, the sergeant replied, “As you wish, Comrade Colonel, but most of the men will already be headed to their surveillance assignments. Are you sure that you mean everyone?”

  “Everyone.” Uncharacteristically, Federov winked and grinned. “Today, we’re taking a holiday from our regular spook work. Instead, we’re going fishing, not with a net, but with a hook. And sergeant…”

  “Sir?”

  “If you would be so kind, puzhalsta, fetch me a glass of tea once you get it on the boil.”

  Wide-eyed, seemingly ready to topple over, the sergeant was speechless. Finally, he found his words and falteringly answered, “As you wish, Comrade Colonel. It would be my greatest pleasure.”

  Residential Complex # 4

  Znamensk (Kapustin Yar-1), Astrakhan Oblast, USSR

  10:10 a.m., Monday, October 23, 1972

  Luba Yohzin stuck three pans of brown bread in the oven and closed the door. The loaves were for her and the boys to snack on during their journey. She checked their travel papers yet again, folded them neatly, and placed them carefully in her purse. Their two suitcases were in the living room, waiting by the front door.

  A few minutes later, startled by the piercing wail of a warning siren, Luba Yohzin ran to the kitchen window, tugged back the curtains and peered outside. Initially, listening for an explosion and looking for a telltale plume of black smoke, she was horrified that there might have been an accident at the cosmodrome. Could this be the terrible thing that Gregor had warned about?

  Her heart thumped as she thought that her beloved Gregor might be injured…or worse. Thinking of Gregor’s terribly disfigured friend, Rustam, she remembered that there were some fates even worse than death. She prayed that if her husband ever was in an accident—today or any other day—that he would not have to suffer in the same manner as Rustam. As much as she loved Gregor, she knew that he would prefer a quick death over a life of prolonged misery.

  With no discernible evidence of a mishap at the cosmodrome, she watched as people--mostly women and young children—streamed out of other apartment buildings to gather in the commons area below. Cupping her ear, she heard the sounds of heavy footsteps on the stairs and fists rapping at doors. She suspected that it might be just another routine emergency drill, except that the block captain usually provided at least some forewarning of drills. Just to be sure, assuming that she would soon join the crowd milling in the commons, she grabbed her coat and purse.

  She heard a tapping at the front door. She promptly opened it to see a broad-shouldered, redheaded man in gray cotton coveralls. A blue metal tool box rested by his feet. “Gas leak, ma’am,” he announced politely. “Somewhere in the complex. We’re evacuating all of the buildings, just as a precaution, and then our fitters will ferret out the leak. You’ll need to go outside to the commons area and wait for the all clear signal before you can come back in. It shouldn’t take any more than an hour or so.”

  “Certainly,” she calmly replied, tying a dark kerchief over her hair.

  “Before you go, make sure that you’ve cut off the gas line to your stove. I’ll show you where the valve is located, if you don’t know.”

  Luba frowned. “I do know where the valve is,” she said. “But I have bread in the oven. I’m afraid it will be ruined.”

  The tall man sniffed the tantalizing odor. “Sorry,” he said. “Switch your oven off and make sure that the pilot is extinguished. And ma’am?”

  “Da?”

  “Is there anyone else here now?”

  “Nyet,” she replied. “My husband is at work and my sons are at school.”

  “Good. This shouldn’t take very long. I’m sorry about your bread, though. Oh…is there any chance that you have a pet here? Perhaps a cat or a dog? We’ve had problems before, when dogs have mistaken our inspectors for intruders.”

  She shook her head. “We do own a dog, but it’s with my husband. He takes it with him to work every day.”

  Nodding, he smiled. “This shouldn’t take too long, and you’ll be able to get back to your chores. I’m really sorry about your bread. It certainly smells delicious.”

  As directed, she switched off the oven. I guess we’ll just be a little hungry today, she thought. Stepping out of the kitchen, she glimpsed the suitcases waiting by the front door. Smiling, she casually picked them up started through the door.

  “Wait,” blurted the man, gesturing towards her valise. “What are those?”

  “They are evacuation suitcases,” she replied. Actually, that was a half-truth; the larger suitcase did contain their emergency supplies and her clothes, but the other just held her sons’ clothes and a few of their books.

  “Evacuation suitcases?” he asked.

  “Da,” she replied. “They’re for emergencies.” Luba raised her eyebrows; she was very surprised that he didn’t know about the rule, particularly if he worked with the gas department. “It’s prescribed in the emergency protocols. Every family is required to have them, in case we are evacuated to a temporary shelter.”

  “Oh,” he replied. “Well, we shouldn’t be very long, so you can just leave them here. I’ll see to it that they are not disturbed.”

  Standing on the stair landing, she pointed down, toward the growing crowd in the commons area. “But everyone has theirs. I’m afraid that my block captain will be checking, and my husband will receive a bad report if I don’t have it with me. It’s procedure, you know.”

  The man nodded reluctantly and replied, “Da. You’re right. Bring them with you. I certainly wouldn’t want for your husband to land in hot water.”

  “Spasiba,” she replied. As she made her way down the stairs with the clumsy suitcases, she was very conscious that something was amiss. She was familiar with most of the maintenance workers who serviced the apartment complex and hadn’t recognized the man who came to her door, and it was extremely suspicious that he wasn’t aware of the rule about the evacuation suitcases. Moreover, she was almost certain that there were only two gas fitters who worked at the complex, and right now a small fleet of sedans and military trucks were parked on the street in front of the building, disgorging a veritable phalanx of “gas workers.” People were definitely acting strangely, just as Gregor had predicted.

  She recalled Gregor’s stern admonition that she must leave Kapustin Yar and make her way to her parents’ cabin in the wilderness, no matter what happened. To that end, she concocted a plan. She
would blend into the swelling crowd of housewives and small children evacuated from their apartments, wait until things settled somewhat, and then walk to the train station, which was about two kilometers distant. A sedan from the school would deliver the boys at 11:30, and they should board the train shortly afterwards.

  10:21 a.m.

  After he spotted Yohzin’s wife walking across the street, Federov stepped into the doorway, opened his tool box, extracted a portable “walkie-talkie” radio—about the size and weight of a large brick—and switched it on. As he waited for the radio to warm up, he cursed himself for not being more aware of the evacuation plans for the apartment complex. Extending the radio’s antenna and speaking into the microphone, Federov summoned his technical search team.

  As he waited for his men to arrive, he slowly strolled through the apartment to gather an appreciation of the layout. It was certainly not a palatial residence by any means. There were two bedrooms, a small living room, the kitchen, a small dining room, and a room that Yohzin apparently used as his study. He found it odd that Yohzin was satisfied with quarters that were more appropriately suited to a junior colonel or perhaps even a senior major; as a major general, he was entitled to a much more spacious unit, as well as a housekeeper and cook. It made little sense that he didn’t requisition quarters commensurate with his rank.

  Assuming that Yohzin likely performed his covert functions without his family’s knowledge, Federov focused his initial search on the general’s sanctum. Like the rest of the apartment, it was sparely appointed. The central feature was a beautiful antique oak secretaire—a roll-top writing desk—that looked like it dated back to the Tsarist era. Besides the ornate desk, which was likely an heirloom, there were two large bookcases that were filled with hundreds of engineering references and science books. Scanning the titles, which were about half German and half Russian, Federov frowned; the abundance of books didn’t bode well, since it was likely that his technicians would have to painstakingly remove and examine every single book to check them for secret compartments. That would be a time-consuming effort, and time wasn’t a luxury available to them.