“Yes.”
“He sought rarefied air,” Khrushchev said, his voice low and distant, “so I shipped the treacherous bastard to Outer Mongolia. I told him, At least I let you live; Stalin would have dumped you in a hole in the ground.”
“Why is he here?”
“The Mongolian air disagreed with him. I underestimated the collective sympathy for him. He’s not a man to attract blind adulation, but he’s admired and he has a weak heart. The Eastern winters were killing him, so I transferred him to Vienna, where he represents us at the Atomic Energy Commission. He sought power, and now he manages it,” Nikita Sergeievich said with a chuckle. “They all feared Stalin and cursed his ways until he was dead. Then each of them wanted to be Stalin. Molotov, Malenkov, Saburov, Kaganovich, Shepilev, Bulganin—they tried to throw me out, attempted the unspeakable, yet they lived because I chose to let them live.” He stretched and turned to face her.
It wasn’t like the General Secretary to talk like this, and it made Talia uneasy. “Molotov has no connection to Lumbas,” she said. “Perevertkin was the engine.”
“That’s the point. Molotov and his kind fought by the old rules. Leaders chose leaders; this was the way from Lenin through Stalin, but now I’ve changed it. They stacked the Politburo against me, but I outflanked them by pushing the question of my leadership down to the full Central Committee. It was unheard of, but it was legal, and Molotov and the others hadn’t thought of it, so they had to give in when the Central Committee backed me. But because the full committee made that decision, they now have the power to make it again. It altered everything,” he added. “Why do I demand changes in our economy? The common people don’t yet understand, but their leaders do, at least intuitively. The Central Committee is the people’s body, its arm, and it has power for the first time. The people ensured my survival, and in time they’ll see that they can also bring about my fall.”
“This has nothing to do with Perevertkin.”
“It has everything to do with what he represented.”
“Perevertkin was nothing.”
Khrushchev answered, “That’s exactly my point. Though he was nothing more than a high-level apparatchik, Perevertkin became someone by daring to try to bring me down.” His voice was lower as he continued. “Our people are ignorant; yet in their ignorance they have true knowledge. They nod their heads at the Party’s words, but they read reality like scholars. They understand symbols; they live by them and take their lead from them. If Perevertkin dared, then others will, and each time somebody tries, it closes the gap between the symbol and the act and brings power closer to the masses. Eventually it will occur to some drunken reindeer herdsman or half-assed Party lawyer that he can change things, and he’ll brood about this until he believes it, and then he’ll tell his family and friends and they’ll tell theirs. One day all the reindeer herdsmen or lawyers will not only believe it but accept it as their right, because if you say something enough times it will be assumed to be true. I outflanked Molotov and the others, but in doing so I fear I may have outflanked myself. In winning I’ve lost, which is brilliantly Russian,” he said bitterly. “One day I’ll fall but they’ll let me live, and by my living and my letting Molotov and his bunch live, all that has gone before will die. Somewhere some young bureaucrat is watching Moscow, and one day he’ll understand all this, see what’s been spawned and will make his own bid for immortality, but he won’t dare move backward. The Cossacks say that when a big horse begins to run, a rider can do nothing more than hang on. The smart Cossack spurs the horse faster and faster until the animal begins to sense that it’s approaching its limits; then and only then, the Cossack may carefully turn the horse.” The General Secretary wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Perevertkin’s act tells us that the Soviet horse has begun to run, and I’m depending on you to make sure I’m not thrown off.”
“But Perevertkin has been stopped,” Talia reminded him. “He failed.”
“Maybe he needed only to try. One who leads makes a bridge for others; Molotov’s presence today reminded me of this. I haven’t seen the bastard in four years, and even though I transferred him here, I was stunned that he had the balls to show himself. If one with so little power can be so bold, what will those with the real power do?”
“Perevertkin is dead.”
Khrushchev nodded solemnly. “True, but is what he set in motion equally dead?”
A crossroad. “Listen to me,” she said. “There’s something you need to know, comrade.”
196SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1961, 10:45 A.M.Vienna
The Boeing 707’s tires spit small puffs of smoke, even though the runway was speckled with puddles of standing water. Arizona stood in the crowd watching the soldiers unroll a red carpet while Secret Service agents raced around the parked jet like ants feasting on fresh carrion—an unsettling image, he reminded himself. An honor-guard detachment in white toy-soldier costumes was positioned fifty meters from the passenger ramp.
Kennedy’s hair ruffled in the breeze as he emerged from the aircraft, and he was squinting. There was cheering throughout the airport. Kennedy’s wife’s hair defied the breeze; she walked stiff-legged and looked rigid and self-conscious, even from a distance. Yet people were fascinated with her, and with them as a couple. It made no sense; lousy senators don’t become great presidents, especially senators whose brains reside in their dicks.
Now Kennedy read a short statement into a small forest of microphones. Arizona couldn’t make out the words, but the crowd applauded enthusiastically.
Secret Service agents in dark suits and dark glasses studied everything and everyone except the president. The White House’s Swiss Guard, Arizona told himself, which was to say that they were single-minded and conspicuous. He had known a lot of them over the years; they tended to be colorless men with few outside interests, which he supposed reduced the incidence of wandering minds. Robots, really, but highly motivated and exquisitely trained; you couldn’t deny that. They understood their jobs and did them well; for a moment he wished his own people were as good, but did not let himself dwell on this. The CIA’s job was much more complex than simple protection and far more murky in its mission.
Arizona studied the area dispassionately and decided that even if Frash was in Austria to cause trouble there was no way he would strike here. In any event, there was no reason to think that Kennedy was the target. He had given considerable thought to this; it had been the Soviets who set up Frash, and it was they who were most at risk.
A gust of wind caught the umbrellas of three onlookers, ripped them free and shot them into the sky like small rockets. As he craned his neck to watch the presidential delegation move toward a line of limousines he sensed someone behind him and turned to find a glowering Valentine. “Thought you might show up here,” Arizona said. “Where’s Sylvia?”
“Doing her bit for hands-across-the-Iron-Curtain. Our newfound Russian colleagues have themselves in an uproar.”
“Frash?”
“He’s our problem. What they’re worked up over is a possible Albanian hit on Khrushchev. They’ve got a lead on a pair of Albanians, one of them a big shot in the Albanian secret police who’s traveling with a woman. The Russians think they whacked Albanian expatriates in Paris. The way they see it, Paris was a prelim for the main event here.”
“You think they’re right?”
Valentine shrugged. “Considering the circumstances and timing, they’re assuming the worst. No other way to play it. Sylvia and I have been helping them.”
“What are the chances that Frash is linked to them?”
“If the Russians are right, he’s not with them—if that’s what you mean—but the Albanians they took down in Paris were probably part of his network. The way I see it, that puts them on opposite sides.”
The crowd had thinned out. Arizona moved to the railing and pushed up the collar of his coat. Could it be that Frash had stayed in Europe to counter the Albanians? Did he know something about an assassinat
ion plot? No, that didn’t fit Frash’s pattern. Don’t grasp at straws, he told himself. “Where is he?”
“Here,” Valentine said, “and still up to his old tricks. He used Gypsies to get into Austria, then snuffed his escort.”
“The dead hiker?”
“Natch. After that he hooked up with an Austrian reporter and posed as an Italian photographer. The Austrian woman helped him get summit press credentials, but the Russians got onto him and traced him through the woman.”
“Where?”
“Here, but he got wind of us, killed the woman and skipped again.”
Arizona’s heart was racing. Were they ever going to catch up with this maniac? “What did he want the press credentials for?”
“The Russians think that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”
Arizona sensed something in the former OSS agent’s voice. “But you don’t?”
“I’m not sure. Your boy has shown an uncanny ability to stay invisible. We’ve flushed him a couple of times, but by and large he’s still calling the dance. He’s done it by keeping in the shadows. I can’t see that he’d be so stupid as to think he could blend into the journalist corps without our picking him out. If I had to guess I’d say that the credentials are irrelevant. The Austrian woman he killed was well connected. My hunch is that he was using her to gather information and to lie low. What I don’t get is why the bastard’s here. My gut tells me that somehow he’s tied to the Albanians, but I can’t work it out. It’s like one of those bizarre pictures where you see one thing when you first look at it and something entirely different if you cock your head or turn it to one side.”
Arizona opened his briefcase and took out a large envelope. “We’ve updated his psychological profile.”
“Anything new?”
“Not that I can see,” he said, closing the briefcase. When he looked up Valentine was gone. “Asshole,” he muttered and then smiled. Beau had gotten his intensity back. In the old days that meant success was as good as in the bag. He wondered what it meant now.
197SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1961, 12:45 P.M.Vienna
A Spetsnaz lieutenant drove the black touring car that carried the General Secretary to his meeting with Kennedy. Talia and Zakharov rode in back with Khrushchev while the rest of the delegation followed in other limos. The convoy was accompanied by motorcycle police and a carload of Spetsnaz personnel.
“You should be aware that there’s a potential problem,” Talia said to Zakharov.
They were passing a huge bed of red and lavender poppies. “Life is a potential problem,” the General Secretary interrupted. “Beria once initiated a project aimed at sedating a village through its water source in Estonia, but several people died because the drug was too concentrated and because some couldn’t tolerate it. Even with careful planning, death is a random event.” Khrushchev had spent the whole night and morning with advisers. Even so, he felt fresh and rested. “My only concern is Kennedy; all else is secondary for the next two days,” he said. “Pogrebenoi’s group suspects there are assassins in the city,” he told Zakharov without emotion.
“There’s always such potential,” the general answered without apparent concern. “Our security is tight.”
“Effort means nothing. I want results. Nothing must get in the way of this meeting.”
“Then you must stick to your itinerary,” Zakharov said.
“I will do what my instincts tell me,” Khrushchev said. “Protection is your concern,” he told both of them.
The convoy slowed as it approached a police barricade outside the American embassy residence. The grounds were covered with weeping willows, dark firs, lindens, oaks and rhododendrons. The building was the color of sculpting clay, a squat modernistic box with chocolate-colored columns and harsh right angles; the overall effect was depressing, almost exactly the opposite of the natural splendor surrounding it.
“You see?” Khrushchev said, shaking his head. “They let the architect express his individual taste, so there is no harmony. Chaos is the price of capitalism.”
The building reminded Talia of the gray tenements being built around Moscow. Austrian police were everywhere, many of them with muzzled Alsatians on short choke chains. The animals looked as tense as their handlers.
The meeting was scheduled to begin with a luncheon in forty-five minutes. It had been Khrushchev’s idea to arrive early to demonstrate that even in the enemy’s camp he could seize the initiative and force the Americans to play by his rules. Flashbulbs lit the gray day as the limousine passed through a heavily guarded checkpoint, then skidded slightly on the driveway as it stopped at the front entrance. A Spetsnaz man was beside the car immediately and Zakharov motioned for him to open the door.
More flashes popped as the General Secretary got out. Kennedy was waiting on the embassy steps, his suit a perfect fit; the shorter Khrushchev looked like a troll beside him as they shook hands. The General Secretary’s smile looked forced. Talia was surprised by the racket made by the cameras behind the press barrier. When the two men at last went inside she felt immediate relief; now protection became the Americans’ responsibility.
“So far so good,” Bailov said to Melko as they stood among the photographers and journalists some distance from the principals.
198SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1961, 3:25 P.M.Vienna
The subterranean area was narrow, dark and cramped, exactly what Frash needed for cover and access. It was dry but chilly belowground, but he was dressed entirely in black and wore two sweaters to help cut the cold. The 9 mm was strapped to his chest, where he could reach it quickly and he had a double-edged knife in his boot. He had moved beyond the point where tourists were allowed, and now he searched methodically for a place to settle. If anybody came along now he would act first, identify second. In the meantime he would make a nest. It would be a long night, but when he was finished he would fly to Las Palmas through Madrid, find a woman and reward himself with a few days in the sun. The wait wouldn’t be bad; he had once sat ninety hours straight waiting for someone, and this would be a snap in comparison. Ali decided that he would wink at Kennedy’s woman before killing both of them.
199SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1961, 4:20 P.M.Vienna
Sylvia and Bailov explored the Schönbrunn Palace, where in less than four hours there would be a glitzy dinner hosted by the Austrian president for the two summit delegations. After nearly two hours she said, “This is like trying to seal off Texas.” The palace was yellow, and seemed to stretch forever. As with the others she had seen, it was difficult to understand how such wealth could be accumulated, much less concentrated in a single family.
Gnedin and Melko approached, the tattooed Russian freshly shaved, clad in a tuxedo that looked too small and tugging at his collar every few seconds. “Come,” Gnedin told her. “We’ve found something interesting.”
In a room off the Great Gallery a symphony orchestra was rehearsing a waltz. The musicians, including several women, wore an odd assortment of clothing; behind them were two stacks of battered instrument cases and two clothing trolleys filled with black bags bearing the orchestra’s emblem.
The two Russians led her behind the musicians as the conductor rapped his baton on a metal music stand. “Again, again,” he said in a tone that suggested he would never be satisfied.
Gnedin took her to a small sitting room whose walls were lined with oil paintings of naked women being fondled by huge swans. Sylvia shook her head. Swans were surly creatures; only a painter could fantasize such nonsense. A pale green dress lay over the back of a red chair, and new shoes were in a box on the floor. “We had to guess your size,” the doctor said before letting himself out and pushing Melko ahead of him.
Tonight there would be a formal dinner for the two delegations, with entertainment to follow. Everyone but Valentine agreed that if something was going to happen this was the ideal setting. The palace was massive, with hundreds of rooms, most of which had been closed for years. There would also be hundreds of guests,
along with musicians, the opera company, caterers and others, all melding together in a splendid setting. Valentine had come along, briefly walked the grounds and departed with one of the cloth swatches in his hand like a talisman, leaving without a word to her or the Russians. She assumed he would be back, but there was a fluttering in her stomach. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t fathom his thought processes.
200SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1961, 5:00 P.M.Vienna
Cabdriver Dieter Hinz was the talkative type, eager to share his life story. A onetime medical student at Heidelberg, he had been conscripted into the Luftwaffe medical service, been sent east, deserted at the first opportunity and now claimed to have once watched a colleague remove a splinter from Adolf Hitler’s ass. For two years he had lived on the run, dodging retreating Nazis, charging Russians and vengeful DPs. After the war he made his way to Greece, where he worked as a fisherman; when the Soviets left in 1955, he moved to Austria, settling first in Linz, only recently moving to Vienna. Twice divorced with no known children, he admitted to antisocial tendencies and an insatiable hunger for money. Valentine liked him immediately.
What Hinz did not have was a strong work ethic. Valentine wanted another look at tomorrow’s meeting sites; the Russians were nervous about tonight’s festivities, but he didn’t buy it, at least not as far as Frash was concerned. Each time he returned to the cab, Hinz had the radio turned up, his head leaning back against the door, his feet stretched out, a foul-smelling cigarette in his nicotine-stained fingers. “I could use some help,” Valentine complained.
“I was hired to drive,” Hinz said. “Tours are extra.”
“What you’re doing is mostly sitting on your ass.”
The Domino Conspiracy Page 65