The Domino Conspiracy

by Joseph Heywood

  In the mirror Lejla saw that the man had a revolver under the towels; she watched his eyes. When his stare switched from her back to her image in the mirror she straightened up to make her breasts easier to see, paused to let him peek, then bent forward, took a quick step backward, pivoted, drove both her hands into his forearm and knocked him off balance. Despite the suddenness of her attack, he got off two erratic shots as he stumbled. He tried to regain his balance but she bent her knees, drove her fist into his throat, snapped an elbow into his solar plexus, grabbed his shirt collar, pushed her hip out and flipped him onto his side.

  As soon as the man entered the bathroom, Kasi had started up the stairs and was halfway when he heard the two muted pops. He found her with a pistol in both hands, crouching over her attacker, who was on the floor clutching his throat, gasping for air. “Not good enough,” he said, examining the man on the floor. “The blow should crush the trachea; when it swells, suffocation is quick.” He made his fist into a sort of claw, drove the heel of his hand into the man’s throat and backed away. The mouth opened wide and there was muted gurgling, followed by convulsions and stillness.

  Kasi sat on the edge of the bathtub and turned on the water, which he tested with his hand. “Clean yourself,” he told her as he hoisted the body onto his shoulders. It would have been better to show restraint, but this was the sort of behavior to expect when remuneration was the sole motivation. Only honor was incorruptible.

  “How did you know what he was going to do?” Lejla asked.

  “The same way you did,” he said. She sponged a small spot of blood from the floor before stepping into the hot water.

  192SUNDAY, MAY 21, 1961, 3:00 P.M.Vienna

  A nameless tavern around the corner from the stables of the Spanish Riding School. Bailov, Ezdovo, Melko and the two Americans sat at a round table with a leather top covered with dust. The room was hexagonal, with heavy wood paneling and an unusual drop ceiling. A waiter popped in and out of the room with plates of greasy pork and carafes of heuriger, but the collective mood was sullen and little was eaten.

  “Bunch of zombies,” Valentine grumbled. “We look like somebody barbecued our pet longhorn. These are setbacks, comrades, just setbacks. We found them once and we can do it again.”

  “Ezdovo found your countryman through Mock, and now she’s dead,” Bailov said. “The Albanians were not at the safe house, which suggests they knew we were coming. They’ll avoid the other safe houses, which means we have nothing.”

  “Even nothing has structure,” Valentine answered. “We can’t see molecules, but they still exist.” The Russians gave him puzzled looks and Sylvia stared as if he had gone off the deep end. He didn’t blame them. Given what Frash had done to the Austrian woman, it was difficult to think of him as capable of even a shred of rational thought, but the gesture with the severed hand was unmistakable; he had issued a challenge. Catch me if you can. “We don’t know where they are, but we’ve got a damned good idea where their interest lies and we’ve spooked them, which can work to our advantage.”

  “Spook?” Melko asked. “You speak of ghosts?” The other Russians looked equally confused.

  “He means that we’ve frightened them,” Sylvia explained. “Frash has press credentials, but I can’t believe he thought they would get him through security. He knows that all of Europe has been looking for him.”

  “Exactly,” Valentine said, “but if he never intended to use them, what was his purpose? Does he see a hole in security that we’ve overlooked?”

  “Even if he tried to use the credentials we can make it impossible for reporters to get near our leaders,” Bailov said. “We can close the meetings and make information available only at briefings by press secretaries.”

  “No,” Valentine said. “If our leaders shut themselves off, the whole world will get the jitters. Besides, I doubt that either of them would agree. They came here to stand in the spotlight. My point is, we know in detail everything that will go on. If we think like Frash and the Albanians, we may see opportunities. What would we exploit?”

  “Or,” Bailov said, getting into the spirit, “we alter the itineraries to make them think there are opportunities.” The American’s point was well taken. “We need to examine the itinerary again.”

  “And have another look at every site they’ll use,” Valentine added. “We need to think like assassins.”

  Melko placed a flat strip of black cloth on the table. “This was in the flat.”

  “This whole goddamned thing has been a roller-coaster ride, but now we can see the end of the run,” Valentine said.

  193SATURDAY, MAY 27, 1961, 4:30 A.M.Klosterneuburg, Austria

  The Americans had worked hand in glove with the Russians for nearly a week, the two parts operating together efficiently as they monitored the list of reporters that grew longer by the day, examined meeting sites, drove routes and timed them, poked into nooks and crannies of the railroad station where Khrushchev would arrive and the airport that would receive Air Force One, analyzed security maneuvers and reviewed the personnel files of hundreds of police, maids, cooks and other support personnel who would provide seamless service to the visiting dignitaries. They also instituted a new sign-in procedure for reporters, and as a precaution asked the Vienna police to stake out the Albanian safe houses.

  The team convened each night after Ezdovo’s return from Rakimov’s office and went through their information like bookkeepers, one entry at a time. Having covered everything each of them had done during the day, they separated to their respective quarters.

  Sometimes Sylvia awoke in the night to find Valentine staring at the strip of cloth from the safe house, his legs crossed Indian style and rocking ever so slightly; at such times she pretended sleep and wondered what was going through his mind. In the last week he had become more withdrawn.

  The Americans guessed that their Soviet colleagues called Moscow every night because they seemed unusually knowledgeable about Khrushchev’s latest moves. By contrast there were no such calls to Arizona. At this point there seemed to be nothing that he could contribute; they also feared that his involvement might upset the current balance. Besides, both of them remembered that Arizona had sent them out blind, which had cost Harry Gabler his life.

  Tonight Beau was at it again, rocking, his arms folded around his legs, staring at the swatch of cloth found in the safe house. “I know you’re watching,” he said.

  “You’ve got eyes in the back of your head, or is it ESP?”

  “You breathe differently when you’re asleep.”

  “Very observant.”

  They had visited a dozen or more fabric shops, including a mill, but had drawn a blank. “A piece of cloth is not like the alloy off a damned UFO,” Valentine said. It occurred to him that the FBI ought to start an evidence collection for investigators—cloth, screws, doorknobs, fibers, paint, metals, every detail of human existence, though it would take a warehouse the size of Oklahoma to house it, a Smithsonian for spies. “The thing is,” he said intensely, “I know I’ve seen this stuff before.”

  Sylvia pulled his shoulder and he fell back gently. “It will come to you,” she said.

  194FRIDAY, JUNE 2, 1961, 5:05 P.M.Vienna

  As the five-car train moved slowly into the station, Talia scanned the platform for her comrades but couldn’t pick them out of the crowd. Austrian soldiers and security men were shoulder to shoulder along both sides of the concrete platforms, their automatic rifles at the ready. Such receptions were normally ceremonial, but this time troops were twitching nervously. More soldiers were on the steep roof over the platform, the glint of their scopes betraying their positions. She was relieved to see that the Austrians were taking their responsibilities seriously.

  Khrushchev and his entourage stopped outside Talia’s compartment. He wore a dark suit and gray hat but no overcoat. He looked into her compartment but didn’t seem to see her; his public smile was strained, his eyes distant.

  Zakharov was
in front of the General Secretary, wearing a navy blue suit rather than a uniform. He had a small walkie-talkie that squawked now and then, but she heard no voices. Two men came up the aisle and whispered briefly to the general. They were young, also in blue suits and carrying radios. He nodded and dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

  After they were gone he approached Khrushchev. “Everything is ready. The Austrian president is waiting.”

  Talia and Gnedin wedged into the aisle outside the compartment, the doctor moving out first to open a path for her.

  “What the hell is Schärf doing here?” Talia heard Khrushchev ask. The presence of the president of Austria seemed to irritate the General Secretary.

  “It’s a courtesy,” Zakharov said softly. “The Austrians want to please you.”

  “And Kennedy,” Khrushchev asked, with an edge in his voice, “will he get the same treatment?”

  Zakharov ignored the cynicism. “We’re still scheduled to go from the station to his palace for the formal ceremony.”

  “The Austrian politicians boast of democracy and live in palaces,” Khrushchev grumbled. “Eventually their people will see the truth and throw them out.”

  “He works in the palace,” Zakharov answered. “It’s not his residence.”

  Talia was surprised at the general’s forthrightness. Few people had the nerve to confront Khrushchev with facts, especially when he was in one of his moods. Was this integrity or contempt on Zakharov’s part? During the journey he had kept to himself except when duty required his presence. That Khrushchev was irritated at the Austrian president’s unscheduled visit was no surprise to her; he frequently violated itineraries, but raged when others dared to do so.

  “We have a schedule to keep,” Zakharov politely reminded the General Secretary.

  Khrushchev grunted, pushed back a sliding door, went out onto the platform between cars and descended the steep metal steps. A square-jawed Russian security man offered him a hand, but he slapped it away and smiled at the crowd.

  The Austrian president was dressed formally, his top hat making him seem twice the General Secretary’s height. The two men shook hands, and then Khrushchev moved on to greet several Russians waiting on the platform.

  Talia pressed forward to keep up, but Zakharov blocked her with his shoulder. “Remember your place,” he said under his breath.

  “I know mine,” she snapped. “Do you know yours, comrade?” She pushed slightly ahead where she could see the General Secretary and those waiting in line to greet him. She was not worried about threats from afar; she concentrated on the people on the platform. Most assassins liked to get in close.

  Everything seemed to proceed normally until Khrushchev got to the end of the line. It took a second for Talia to realize that something was wrong; then she saw that the Soviet leader’s face had turned bright red. Whatever he had seen had caused him to stiffen and stop in his tracks. Where was Gnedin?

  After a brief pause Khrushchev extended his hand to a taller man with a round face and swept-back black hair. While their hands were joined, the General Secretary leaned forward and said something to the man, then moved on to finish his obligatory greetings, glancing back briefly after he reached the end of the line. Talia caught Gnedin’s attention and pointed to the dark-haired man. The doctor acknowledged with a nod and followed.

  The crowd inside the station was huge, but people were standing quietly. When the Soviet delegation entered, there was a smattering of polite applause beyond the barricades. A few let loose catcalls but Khrushchev smiled dutifully, ignoring them. In the corridor leading to the vehicles more Austrian soldiers presented arms. The General Secretary suddenly veered left, opened the door to a public rest room and barged inside. Zakharov followed, then returned quickly. “Seal the corridor,” he instructed an aide, who relayed the information to an Austrian officer, who barked commands that sent soldiers scurrying to both ends of the hall. “He wants to talk to you,” Zakharov said to Talia.

  When Gnedin tried to follow her the general stopped him with an arm. “Just the woman,” he said, but Talia reached back, caught the doctor’s arm and pulled him along with her.

  “Where I go, he goes,” she told Zakharov.

  Khrushchev was standing in the middle of the room with his hat in front of him. Gnedin was amazed at the latrine’s cleanliness; Moscow’s public facilities were still little more than privies, especially in the hospitals where sepsis was as normal as vermin. Here even the urinals glistened.

  Khrushchev gestured to Talia with his hat. “I’m returning full responsibility for security to you,” he said.

  Zakharov’s mouth opened, but he said nothing.

  Khrushchev turned to the general. “You’ll be the figurehead and act as official go-between with the various agencies, but her decisions are binding.”

  “I advise against this,” Zakharov said.

  “The decision is made,” Khrushchev said, “so do your damned duty. A soldier has no function but to follow orders; now we’ll see what kind of soldier you are.”

  Talia started to say something, but Gnedin caught her arm. “That was Molotov on the platform,” he whispered.

  The name said all that Talia needed to know. Molotov was the former Soviet foreign minister and premier who four years ago had led the attempt to oust Khrushchev. The clever Ukrainian had outflanked the plotters at the last second and retained his power by pressuring the Politburo and demanding that the question of his power be put to the full General Assembly, which had sided with him. This had never been done before and proved that Khrushchev could outthink his opposition. Afterward he had sent Molotov into exile. The list of guests had said nothing about the former premier and Nikita Sergeievich’s meeting the man face to face must have been like seeing a ghost, a reminder of how fragile his political position was. Talia understood what had happened. Lumbas was somebody else’s tool; Molotov’s unexpected presence had jarred Khrushchev back to reality, and he had returned power to the Special Operations Group because of it.

  “Find out why that bastard was here,” Khrushchev growled to Talia as he stalked out the door.

  The General Secretary got into a new white Ford convertible with the top down and waved to the crowd that stared silently at him as if he were a man from Mars. There were police cars ahead of and behind the convoy and a phalanx of dark green motorcycles surrounding his vehicle, their riders wearing uniforms with heavy gold braid and shiny leather boots. Circus Cossacks, Talia thought.

  One of Zakharov’s people pointed Talia to a car behind the General Secretary’s, but a whistle from someone in the crowd caught her attention and she saw Bailov waving for her to cross through security and join him. “Go talk to him,” she told Gnedin. “I’m supposed to be Nikita Sergeievich’s relative; I’ll have to remain with the group for now. Take whatever initiatives are necessary, but keep me informed.” More and more she felt the isolation that came with leadership.

  She saw Bailov and Gnedin embrace briefly, then disappear behind a line of civilians with closed umbrellas. They looked like carbines to her and made her clench her teeth.

  195FRIDAY, JUNE 2, 1961, 8:50 P.M.Purkersdorf, Austria

  The Soviet embassy in Purkersdorf was a dreary survivor of the last century, a sprawling brick box of forty once-grand rooms set in a forest of spike-topped pines and walking trails cleared with hand scythes. The coming of the General Secretary was viewed by the ambassador as an opportunity to impress the ebullient Ukrainian; contingency funds had been depleted to give the old place new paint and new Swedish furniture to replace the garish junk that found its way there over the years. The house, which had been built by a world-famous glassmaker, now housed Soviet embassy personnel and a steady stream of visitors from Moscow.

  Security was predictably heavy. Even in normal circumstances Khrushchev moved with a phalanx of armed personnel clinging to him like a second skin. Soldiers from an Austrian Alpine regiment were stationed outside the residence walls, and Talia saw two gra
y panel trucks with revolving-loop antennae near the entrance. Several armored personnel carriers were parked at intervals along the street. Inside the walls Zakharov’s people patrolled in pairs, their Kalashnikovs slung over menacing black suits. She saw no dogs but could hear them on the grounds.

  Talia’s room was on the top floor, next to Khrushchev’s; his wife, Nina Petrovna, was in a separate room on the other side of her husband. Talia draped her raincoat over a black chair, kicked off her shoes and went to the window. A set of blueprints of the embassy had been placed on the desk, the corners of the documents held down by small glass paperweights with red stars inside them. From her window she saw a kidney-shaped swimming pool and three grass tennis courts with bare spots along the service lines. The grounds were illuminated by small spotlights mounted on wooden poles; several of the lights were improperly aligned and left gaps. Soviet workmanship, she reminded herself, was a contradiction in terms. Fumes of fresh paint and turpentine engulfed her. All the lights inside the villa were on, which added to the peculiar feeling of the place. Moscow was dark, in part because of inadequate power, in part because the blackout mentality of the war persisted, but mostly because the Russian soul was inherently dark. Artificial light unnerved her people because it made them easier to see. The Mongols, the czars, Stalin—no matter who ruled—the people were kept in darkness. The system could not tolerate light. Sharp nails get the hammer first, a proverb warned, a lesson that seldom strayed from her countrymen’s minds. Reduce your profile and erase your shadow; these actions and luck were the paths to a long life.

  Khrushchev came into her room through a connecting door. Sweat stains reached from under his arms to the center of his chest. He folded his arms and watched two guards stop in the middle of the nearest tennis court to pass a cigarette back and forth over the net. “You saw Molotov?” he asked.