The problem was in the design of the filing system. It listed both agents and assets together. A security measure of sorts. A spy or a potential defector would not be able to distinguish between the two unless he could decipher the designator and then ask for still another code through an automatic hookup with either Yasenevo or Moscow Central. Which meant he would need to have a collaborator there. All very complicated.
This listing for Aldo Corsini showed no designator code. For all Yuri knew, he was only an asset, albeit a particularly ambitious one. To be listed as an asset, however, meant very little. Once, in London, Yuri had rented a furnished room from a distracted old woman with terrible breath who had asked no questions and dealt strictly in cash. Even that woman was now on this list. He had put her there. She was an asset of some possible future use, but for all an intruder would know, that old woman in London could be Mata Hari.
“Lydia?” He leaned back in his chair, turning toward the young female officer who had been studiously ignoring him.
She did not answer. He tried again, a little louder.
She raised her head slightly. “You will address me correctly.” She bit off the words. ”I am Lieutenant Voinovitch.”
Yuri sighed. Again and again, he had tried to be cordial with her. The problem was that on the night when he took her home with him, she had been quite drunk. There had been a party celebrating General Belkin's promotion. Too many toasts. Voinovitch, a code and cipher officer whose behavior was normally very correct, was finally letting her hair down. Normally it is in a bun, tied tight like the rest of her.
She became a coquette. But this role was clearly unfamiliar to her and she played it awkwardly. Her intentions, however, were clear. From his point of view, she was not so bad looking, and also he was a little drunk himself. He and Maria had not yet been intimate, so there was no question of betrayal and the bad luck that comes with it. Voinovitch was offering herself. As with Carla, he could not refuse her.
But, unlike Carla, the pleasures of lovemaking seemed new to her as well. She would not undress fully and she insisted that all lights be turned off. Suddenly, she was prim and proper again. She had also been passive. She barely moved, leaving everything to him.
Finally, came the sex. She remained limp. She stared up at him, no expression, all the while. When it was over, she turned on her side, curled herself up, and began sobbing. He tried to soothe her. She shook him off. Then she leaned over the edge of his bed and vomited on top of his shoes.
Still, he tried to comfort her. He told her that it was only the vodka. That, and his failure to put her sufficiently at ease. He suggested that they try again, with a little more talk this time, even a few jokes. Sex is fun, he said. It should not be taken too seriously. For this, she called him a dirty name. From that day to this, they had barely spoken.
“Very well,” he said to her now. “You are Lieutenant Voinovitch. Major Rykov is telling you to come look at this screen.”
She wrinkled her nose, but she stood up. He watched her. Such a shame, he thought. A good body, proud posture, wonderful hips. She was standing at his side now, pretending to look at the screen, but there goes that nose again. He could tell that she was sniffing him. He wished he had thought to use cologne.
“What do those numbers mean?” he asked.
She leaned over, reading them. “You are not cleared,” she said. She turned away.
This was too much.
Yuri grabbed her arm, snarling at her. “Enough,” he barked. ”I have tried my best with you. I have no more time for this. In ten seconds, Lydia, you are going to be across my knee.”
She trembled. A shine came into her eyes. Her chest began heaving. Yuri, seeing this, groaned inwardly. It was fast becoming apparent that he had used the wrong technique during their previous encounter. Their notions of fun, with respect to sex, were not the same.
She wet her lips. Her chest rose several times before at last she touched the screen with her finger.
“This number,” she said thickly, “is a numerical code. It shows the date of the restriction and who ordered it.”
Yuri studied the number. 02-4-238-4412. He touched a finger to the first two digits. “This 02, then, is Second Chief Directorate?”
“They still seem to be calling it that, yes.”
“And the others?”
“The next two sets are a date, also in code, showing when the restriction was ordered. This one is from last September. In the last set of digits, 44 identifies the officer and 12 states the reason. 12 is always the reason. It means national security.”
“Who is the officer?”
She did not answer.
His hand still gripped her upper arm. He squeezed it. Hard.
''I...am not authorized.” Her voice took a hitch. “Even if I am beaten.”
Yuri's eyes became hooded.
“Why … .” She swallowed hard before continuing. “Why do you smell of lemons?”
Yuri sagged. But better lemons than Carla. He thought of telling her that he scratched himself on thorns and rubbed lemon juice into his wounds to increase his suffering. The answer would probably please her, but he had no wish to arouse her appetites beyond their present state. He tapped a finger against the screen.
“Have you ever seen these names before? Barca and Corsini?”
“No.”
An idea struck him. “How can I see what other files have been restricted by this same officer?”
“Turn your head,” she told him.
Yuri obeyed. She reached past him and touched a series of keys. A list scrolled onto the screen. It contained about a dozen names in alphabetical order, each followed by another numerical code. All of the names, except one, meant nothing to him. But the name second from the top, after Barca, read benedict, carla.
He pointed to the code after her name. “All the date codes are the same except for that of this woman. What date is this?”
“Eighteen, February. This year.”
Nearly three months ago, thought Yuri. According to Carla, that was approximately when her relationship with Aldo became serious. Aldo must have reported his conquest and all access to her file was then ordered to be restricted. But by whom?
And what of the other names on this list, and what did they have in common? Nearly all were of different nationalities. Members of some sort of network? He memorized the names as best he could.
“Lydia ... who is your commanding officer?”
“General Belkin.”
“And I am his aide. I am asking you in his name. This 44 is obviously running illegals in the West and the SCD has no such authority. Who is number 44?”
“General Belkin must ask.”
“Very well. We stay here until he calls. But I have urgent duties in Zurich and you are keeping me from them.”
She grunted doubtfully. “More likely a woman in Zurich,” she said. “One more to your taste.”
Exasperated, Yuri made a fist with his free hand. He used it to punch his own head. “Then come with me if you like,” he growled at her. “You like pain? I'll show you pain.”
It was his fatigue talking. His impatience. He did not mean it. He shook his head. “I'm sorry. Never mind that.”
But he felt that she had softened. He glanced up at her. An odd expression. He had thought that she was baiting him, but now what he saw looked very much like disappointment.
Yuri had an intuition. He did not much like himself for it, but the clock was running. “You would not have the stomach for it,” he said. “Besides, I might end up ripping your uniform off.”
She moistened her lips. “What sort of duties?”
He took the chance. ”A man has been killed. Cut to bits. It is nothing for a woman to see.”
She began to tremble. That shine returned to her eyes. ”I am ... not so delicate as you think.”
Yuri had no doubt of that. What happened, he wondered, to the psychological testing procedures of the KGB? Had they been dispensed with in
the rush toward reform? If not, how is it that this woman gets Foreign Intelligence duty instead of, for example, the job of interrogator at Lefortovo prison. All the same, he could use her. If only to have a second pair of eyes and to have a driver in case his own eyes should grow heavy.
“Who is 44? Do you know?”
She shook her head, then cocked it toward his machine. ”I can ask. But why?”
Yuri took a chance. “The man who has been killed seems to work for him. Let's see what we're getting into.”
She hesitated. Then, “Turn your head.”
Again, Yuri obeyed. He released her arm. She rubbed it for what seemed a long time before reaching for the keys. He listened as she typed in an identifier, then another series of letters. The machine chugged.
“Hmmph,” she muttered.
Yuri peeked. The screen said access denied, followed by another code.
She pushed his face away. ”I will try something else.” She worked the keys again for what seemed like a full minute. One message after another appeared on the screen and quickly blinked off as if she were picking her way through an electronic maze. She hit the return key, the screen lit up, she stood erect.
“He is one of these,” she said.
Yuri looked. There were eight names, alphabetical, all with the same surname, followed by designator codes. The surname was borovik. Yuri stared at it, one eye closed. It seemed to ring a distant bell.
“These two”—she touched the screen—“are television commentators in Moscow. They are father and son. No association with KGB.”
Lydia squinted to read the other codes. “This one is a physicist and that one is a dancer who defected ten years ago. The other four are all KGB. One captain, one major... not enough rank there . . . one major general . . . and one colonel, but the colonel appears to be deceased.”
She said “Hmmph” again. She played more keys.
An abbreviated biography appeared on the screen under the name borovik, gennadi yakovich.
They read it together although Yuri did not know why Lydia had called it up. A dead man was hardly number 44.
Yuri glossed over the biographical details. Nothing striking in them. A man of modest credentials who nonetheless managed to be promoted fairly regularly. This deceased colonel had last been assigned to the old Fifth Directorate— ideology and dissidents—stationed in Leningrad. Dead eight years. Murdered. Body mutilated. Circumstances and details are classified. Several confessions, two executions. Confessions now regarded as illegitimate. Status of investigation: closed.
”I thought so,” said Voinovitch. She returned to the alphabetical list. “Same patronymic. That one and this one were brothers. Why would they close such an investigation?”
Yuri wasn't sure that he cared. “Bring up the other one.”
More keys. A second biography washed down from the top—BOROVIK, VADIM YAKOVICH.
Yuri read this one more carefully. Like his brother—born in Sverdlovsk, which is now Yekaterinburg. Father was the party boss there. No education beyond high school, no languages, no technical training. And yet he was made Deputy Minister of Mines when not even Yuri's age. Typical.
Applied KGB in 1966. Assigned Second Chief Directorate. Stationed in Prague 1968-69, promoted, Budapest after that, promoted, back to Moscow, promoted, to East Germany as deputy commander of the Karlhorst Compound, back to Moscow when Germany was reunited. Never traveled to the West. Steady promotions and yet he was never sent to the KGB Higher School or even Higher Party School.
Yuri was frowning. This was the resume of a goon.
The KGB had seen nothing in him worth developing. Take away his father's influence and he would have been pounding rocks in the gold and emerald mines of Sverdlovsk or sweeping some factory floor. A bag of stolen emeralds probably got him into the KGB in the first place.
How come the promotions? Answer is simple. More emeralds from his papa in Sverdlovsk. But also he does what he is told.
“This Borovik,” he asked Lydia Voinovitch. ''What is his job now?”
Lydia asked the machine. It answered with another designator code.
“Looks like .. ” She rocked her hand as if specificity was eluding her. “Investigation of black-market activities . . . smugglers . . . that sort of thing.”
“It doesn't say straight out?”
She pointed to a series of numbers. “These are clearances,” she said. “They refer to certain categories of files to which his orders give him access. They all involve the black market one way or the other. He seems to be on a special assignment of some kind.”
“Reporting to whom?”
She shrugged. “There is no indication. But probably to his deputy chairman or to the Special Inspectorate.”
Yuri frowned again. This last was the equivalent of an inspector general's office. Or it used to be. Now it had become a repository for the grayest of the gray men. Many had been members of the Party Committee—the ideological watchdogs of the KGB—until Gorbachev decreed that they no longer had jobs. Positions had to be found for them. Their incomes and privileges were to be assured but foreign travel was to be denied them. Otherwise half of them would fly to New York in search of literary agents.
On the one hand, Yuri was excited, although he took care not to show it. General Belkin had gone to Moscow hoping to beat the bushes. Flush out some men for whom he had no names or faces. This, at least, is what he claimed, and Yuri would not presume to doubt him even though such a speculative tactic was not so typical of him. Borovik, in any case, could be one of them. So much seemed to fit. An illegal network. Aldo Corsini a part of it. Carla Benedict listed as if she were part of it, but he knew that to be impossible. She is clearly seen as an asset. An entry to the Bruggs. A means of penetration.
On the other hand, he was troubled. Two things bothered him. The first was that this Borovik, if all else was true, seemed to have a great advantage over General Belkin. He would be waiting for him. On his own ground.
The second—a contradiction—was that Borovik could not be the man. What was being done, if General Belkin was right, required intelligence and a talent for organization. It required something of a visionary. Borovik was merely a goon.
But whose goon? The goon of how many?
How he wished that General Belkin would call.
“Major Rykov? Yuri?”
He rubbed his eyes. “Yes, Lydia.”
“This dead man in Zurich. He is svoi7'
“Definitely not.”
“An enemy?”
He nodded. ”A criminal. A lowlife.”
To anyone else he might have added, as encouragement, that Corsini is a man who beats women. With Voinovitch, however, it was doubtful that such a pronouncement would have the desired effect.
“Will there be danger?” she asked.
He started to shake his head. There would be the scrubbing of walls and floors. There would be the binding of a body, tying weights to it, and perhaps rowing it to the deepest part of Lake Zurich. He had not decided yet. There would be the disposition of Corsini's car. There would be fighting sleep, and afterward, there would probably be the task of relieving this woman's excitement. But there would probably be no danger.
“Very possibly,” he said. An answer to the contrary would have disappointed her.
“We will need weapons.”
He doubted it but he nodded. Weapons would please her. All the more if they were illegal. He could not very well go down to Embassy Security and sign out two Makarovs. General Belkin, however, kept two or three confiscated pistols in his office safe. They were not of the best quality, but they were unrecorded.
As for Lydia, he had not actually promised that he would take her with him. Not firmly. But now he could not leave her in any case. No telling what she might do, whom she might call, if left alone with her thoughts, resenting that he had gulled her.
What he really wished was that he could trust her to stay and wait for General Belkin to call. He could leave her a
message, carefully worded, to be read to him verbatim. But what, he asked himself, would be the greater risk? Trusting her to do that without first calling someone else? Or leaving General Belkin in ignorance awhile longer.
The answer was neither. The greater risk would be the untimely discovery of what had become of Aldo Corsini.
Who could tell what a goon might do?
25
Red Square was brightly lit.
Cobblestones gleamed and St. Basil's glistened, its exuberant swirls of color even brighter against the darkening sky. Beyond was the Rossiya Hotel, so impersonally massive, thought Elena, when seen in daylight. Now it seemed almost inviting.
She hugged her new husband's arm. She felt good.
Soon, over a nice supper, she and Leo would explain everything to him. Everything. She would see to it that Leo filled in a few blanks. For her own part, she would explain that her intention was not so much to deceive him as it was to humor Leo Belkin and, above all, not to miss this chance to see Moscow. He would grumble for a while but he would understand. A weight had been lifted.
Not so, she feared, with poor Leo.
He was on her right arm, his lips moving soundlessly. He was probably rehearsing what he might say at dinner. Finding a way to make his theories sound more plausible than they had to her. And perhaps still puzzling over the restoration of Lesko's good humor.
KGB disease.
He kept glancing over toward the Kremlin, toward those guards at the Spassky Gate. He must have felt her eyes on him because now he raised his watch, pretending that he was only checking the time against the clock in the Savior's Tower. But she knew that he was looking for that officer.
Was the officer watching for him? Had the officer called to report that a certain General Belkin was nosing around the Kremlin with unauthorized visitors? That, after all, was surely Leo's purpose in making a scene there earlier. And if the officer did call, had anyone cared? She had seen no sign of surveillance.
Elena squeezed him. When he did not respond, she pinched him. Relax, Leo. She scolded him with her eyes. If they want to watch us, let them watch. Let them scurry in and out of their holes. If they show themselves, so be it.
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