by Dan Pollock
Marcus sat back, reared his head and gorged on oxygen, blinking up at the faint smear of light that was the Milky Way. Music continued to thud nearby, as though nothing had happened. Marcus recognized an Abba oldie, “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!” Slowly he unwound the corpse from its nylon shroud, fumbled and found his flashlight, knew even before its beam played over the grizzled mustache who the assassin was.
So, Walter had decided to pass up Munich’s fleshpots tonight. Surprise, old man. You were not my death, after all. I was yours.
Marcus moved the beam of light down to the lifeless hand, toward a pale gleam of metal. Marcus tugged, but the steel ring was stuck tight on the fleshy forefinger. But there was more than one way to skin a traitor. Marcus felt around under snarled fabric till he located the captain’s weapon, brought it into the light—and swore in two languages:
“Yob tvoyu mat! I’ll be damned!”
Only Crocodile Dundee or John Rambo would carry such a monster survival knife, Marcus thought. Damn near a foot-long blade, with a chisel-tooth saw. A regular Arkansas toothpick. He feathered his finger along the edge, drew blood. Very keen. Would have filleted Marcus nicely.
He swung the flashlight back to the ring. Then with one hand he gripped the huge knife while the other prepared for surgery by carefully exposing and isolating Walter’s beringed forefinger.
Wear it in health, Marcus had said. And so the captain had, for most of a day.
Eleven
Eight years before, as a young GRU officer on brief assignment to England (gathering intelligence on the activities of supposedly retired SAS commandos), Taras Arensky had visited the Tower of London and heard the story of Sir Walter Raleigh. The part that had both fascinated and perplexed him was why Raleigh, finally escaping thirteen years imprisonment in the White Tower by undertaking a last voyage to the New World, would voluntarily return afterward to his homeland to face a capital charge—and then stretch his neck meekly upon the infamous Tower Green chopping block.
As the Boeing 707 touched down in darkness at Vnukovo Airport thirty kilometers southwest of Moscow, Taras thought again of Raleigh, with a sort of kinship. For Taras was also returning under sentence of death (though now supposedly withdrawn by the Soviet Supreme Court), in obedience to an imperial summons. And undoubtedly like Raleigh, he was prey to conflicting emotions, one of which was a profound and sudden homesickness. But wariness and distrust were also present in healthy proportions, backed by undismissible fears for his own safety—and, though it sounded trite, for his soul. He was, after all, returning at the behest of tyrants, to stalk and murder an old friend.
And yes, there was guilt. Taras had justified his defection to himself countless times and knew in his heart he had not betrayed Mother Russia, only the parasitic Soviet system. Yet the Russian language had no word for “defector”—only for emigrant or traitor. And as the big Boeing taxied toward the terminal lights, Taras could not escape the sense of returning to face judgment—not God’s, certainly not the Party’s, more like the collective judgment of three hundred million souls across this vast land—which was really a way of saying his own self-imposed judgment. For no matter what his passport said, Taras would always feel himself Russian, would always wish other Russians to understand why he had left. How would his homeland greet its prodigal after all these years and so many radical reforms? And how would he react to it?
Of course no fanfare accompanied Arensky’s first footsteps back on his native soil; quite the opposite. He deplaned into the surprising heat of a summer night and was whisked away at once, giving him no opportunity to savor his emergence from a U.S. presidential jet at what was, after all, Moscow’s VIP airfield—exactly like all those foreign dignitaries he used to watch on the nightly Vremya news program being greeted by Comrade Brezhnev. Only a couple of plainclothes KGB security types were waiting at the foot of the boarding stairs, along with Hank Kelleher, the distinguished-looking, white-haired political attache—and CIA station chief—at the American Embassy, who hustled Taras and Mike Usher into the back of a black Lada. Within minutes they were following the taillights of a KGB Chaika onto the Kiev Highway and through the darkness of the city’s suburban forest belt.
“We’re not exactly advertising your visit,” Kelleher explained when they crossed Moscow’s outer ring road. The highway now became Lenin Prospekt, one of the central approaches to the city, and one which happened to trace the route of Napoleon’s disastrous retreat. “Which is why we’re putting you up at the Metropole for tonight instead of the Embassy compound. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Why should I?” Taras said. “If anyone bugs my room, all he’ll hear is snoring. I’m about done in.”
“So how does the Big Village look to you after all these years?”
“Bigger,” Taras said, recognizing the high-rise complex of the Central Tourist House on their left. A lot of cement had indeed been poured since he’d left, the city solidifying to the southwest beyond the old prefab housing blocks—Khrushchoby, or Khrushchevian slums—filling in all the way out to the ring road from Gagarin Square, where the spotlighted titanium cosmonaut atop his forty-meter-high rocket column still looked to Arensky as they passed below like a comic book superhero blasting skyward. Yet unchanged was the city’s air of brooding, provincial gloom—something especially palpable at this late hour, with the streets almost entirely deserted and, despite all the perestroika and market-oriented economic reforms, still deficient in the random neon flickerings taken for granted in the West.
“Ugliness on the march,” Kelleher said. “Most of the old suburban villages are gone now. And unfortunately a lot of lovely neighborhoods farther in were also razed by Grishin’s bulldozers and replaced with more dreary office blocks and ‘housing estates,’ before the bastard was booted upstairs.”
Moments later, as they passed Oktyabrskaya Square on the Garden Ring and doglegged left toward the city center, Taras got his first glimpse of the giant, electrified red stars atop the Kremlin towers, where once the Tsar’s double-headed eagles had perched. Moments later, as they crossed over the reflection-streaked Moskva on the Bolshoi Kammeny Bridge, the great citadel itself shouldered into view with its floodlit facades and golden domes and turrets. The Thameside Tower of London was a quaint medieval toy compared to this immense stronghold, whose red brick walls rose twenty meters and enclosed seventy thousand square meters of cathedrals, palaces and monumental government buildings. Even though the Soviet empire was raveling away at its edges, this medieval fortress still remained the seat of power of a vast region—a sixth continent, as it had often been described.
They came off the bridge into Borovitskaya Square and turned right on Marx Prospekt, alongside the Kremlin’s west wall and the Alexandrovsky Gardens. Unlike other monuments to repression—the Bastille and the Berlin Wall came to mind—these great crenellated ramparts might never come tumbling down, but the winds of glasnost were gradually rendering them less menacing. Still, Arensky’s jet-lagged nervous system was slightly overwhelmed by the Kremlin’s massive reality. He needed a shot of vodka, and a good mattress.
The Chaika now preceded them past Gorky Street (recently rechristened “Tverskaya Street,” its pre-Stalinist name) and the gray granite-and-marble bulk of the Moskva Hotel on Revolution Square, then swung round Sverdlov Square on the side opposite the illuminated Greek temple front of the Bolshoi. They pulled up behind the Chaika in front of the five-storied, glass-domed edifice of the Metropole Hotel. Not exactly four stars, but at least atmospheric, with a facade decorated with mosaic panels. Better than the Ukraina or the Leningradskaya, for instance, or the awful Rossiya down by the river, known as the “Big Box” for ts gargantuan size and general resemblance to a packing crate. And the Metropole was certainly preferable to Lefortovo Prison, where, as a convicted traitor, Arensky might reasonably have expected to spend his first night back on Soviet soil.
As had been the case at Vnukovo with the formalities of customs and immigration, the red tape of ho
tel registration was sliced through on his behalf. Arensky kept passport and visa, and was given his key directly at the desk. As he came off the elevator, his KGB escort waved off the sour-faced dezhurnaya, the floor lady, whose usual function, besides snooping, was to issue passkeys in exchange for chits. After a brief good night to Kelleher, Taras was left alone. He threw open the windows to let in a warm, humid breeze, decided against vodka and instead downed a small bottle of Borzhomi mineral water from the minibar, threw his sticky clothes in the general direction of a poisonous green-plush armchair and collapsed into bed.
Welcome home.
*
At No. 2 Dzerzhinsky Square—only a few long blocks and one Metro stop north of Red Square—stands a massive red-granite and ocher-stucco structure. Actually this monstrosity, which fills the square’s entire northeastern side, is composed of two buildings haphazardly matched—a seven-story turn-of-the-century Italianate building (pre-Revolutionary headquarters of the All-Russia Insurance Company) and a nine-story extension (built by German prisoners during, and after, the Great Patriotic War).
The site is commonly passed over in guidebooks and Intourist spiels, while attention is directed to the large Children’s World department store opposite at No. 2, Marx Prospekt. But the two-building structure requires no identification for Muscovites. It is infamous as KGB headquarters, and still known by its former function as the Lubyanka Internal Prison. Since December of 1920 dom dva (house number two) has been the stronghold of the Soviet secret police, the organ of state security founded by the man whose bronze statue stands in the center of this square, which also bears his name, “Iron Feliks” Dzerzhinsky.
During the long nightmare of Stalinist terror, the building’s vehicle courtyards were kept busy with NKVD “bread vans” and Black Marias making their ceaseless deliveries of enemies of the state for the Lubyanka’s dog kennel cells, or sobachniki. During those dark decades, the rococo structure on Dzerzhinsky Square served as combined interrogation center, torture-and-execution chamber and crematorium.
But those were the bad old days. With the advent of glasnost and perestroika, the Committee for State Security had changed its spots and considerably polished its public relations, going so far as to institute citizen hotlines and permit a degree of legislative oversight by the Congress of People’s Deputies. The current KGB chief, Volodya Biryukov, now allowed anti-KGB demonstrations in Dzerzhinsky Square to become quite boisterous before sending in the riot police. “We bow our heads in memory of the innocent victims,” one of Biryukov’s predecessors, Vladimir Kryuchkov, had said of secret-police brutality under Stalin. “It will never happen again. Never.”
Taras very much hoped that that was true, as he and Hank Kelleher approached the bas relief of Karl Marx at the entrance of the original Lubyanka building the next morning. Most guests and KGB subordinates, he knew, were required to use one of the headquarters’ six side entrances, but the two Americans were conducted past the sentry with no credential check, and without being issued the usual time-stamped pass for verifying the movements of all visitors.
Taras had never before set foot in this vast sanctum sanc-torum, but, with the exception of uniformed sentries and frequent security checkpoints, he found it exactly like other state ministries—cavernous, dingily carpeted corridors, with high ceilings and oversized doors, steadily trafficked by mostly civilian personnel. Except here, undoubtedly, the faces were more impassive and the eyes more knowing.
An ancient elevator took them to the fourth floor of the old building, where thick carpeting muffled their steps and polished walnut paneling darkly mirrored their passage. After a considerable trek they were ushered into a large office with a mahogany and tooled-leather conference table at one side, positioned before high windows opening onto the square; opposite was a large, red-leather-paneled desk. At their entrance, three men—two in uniform, the other in business suit—got quickly up from the table; and a fourth man—squat, long-armed and bow-legged—emerged from behind the desk.
This man, smiling and extending his hand, was also in civilian attire. But the portrait behind his desk showed him in uniform, visored cap under arm, with a colonel general’s stars on his red shoulder boards and a chestful of medals—including the Order of Lenin and Hero of Socialist Labor. This was, then, Volodya Biryukov, current chairman of the Committee for State Security.
Besides being short and simian, Biryukov was pockmarked, with oily, thinning black hair and bushy Brezhnevian eyebrows. The portraitist had done his best to flatter his unprepossessing subject, strengthening the rudimentary features, thickening the hair and smoothing the cratered complexion. But darting black eyes, which Taras thought could almost be described as merry, were more impressive in the original.
Biryukov and Kelleher were already “Volodya” and “Genrikh” to each other. The rest of the introductions were quickly made by the KGB chairman. The two in uniform were Biryukov’s sturdy-looking deputy, Lieutenant General Anatoliy Borovik, and a blond, crew-cut, square-jawed lieutenant colonel, Pavel Starkov, who looked to Arensky like a Volga German. It was Starkov, the KGB chairman explained, who had conducted the arrest of Marchenko for treason—an arrest which the old general had resisted, violently and futilely, leading, unfortunately, to his death. Starkov was on temporary reassignment from the Second Chief Directorate for internal security to the Ninth Directorate, responsible for guarding the Politburo members—specifically in this case President Rybkin. The fourth man in the room, also in civilian clothes, was a Major General Piotr Rogovoy, a bald and humorless-seeming fellow with a limp handshake; his reason for being present was not given.
They took seats around the big table, Biryukov in an armchair beside the window—a place from which, Taras thought, he could easily look down on any protests, or commune with Iron Feliks, whose brooding bronze statue outside was circled endlessly and noisily by the square’s vehicle traffic. An air-conditioning unit hanging outside one window was out of commission; and a small electric fan atop a file case had been pressed into service to stir a lethargic breeze across the table.
Biryukov laced plump fingers together and leaned forward. “Well, gentlemen, shall we start? My friend Genrikh has been up here before, of course. But Taras Olegovich, may I be the first to say ‘welcome home’?”
Arensky acknowledged with a slight nod. He wasn’t about to express gratitude for the atavistic, Cold War-vintage coercion that had brought him here.
Hank Kelleher stepped in: “This is very genial of you, Volodya, but let us not pretend that Taras is here on a sentimental journey to the Motherland. He has come to cooperate with you, as you know, at the request of President Ackerman, and as quid pro quo for the issuance of long-delayed exit visas for his sister and her family.”
“Of course,” the chairman continued in an slightly subdued vein, “we are aware of these details. And we are not here to discuss the past. The problems which face us now are common problems, far too critical to permit divisiveness. Let me say, Taras, we all of us here appreciate your cooperation, and the alacrity with which you have offered it. And I very much include in these appreciative words the sentiments of our President.”
The others nodded in solemn accord. Now I’m supposed to feel all warm and fuzzy, Taras thought, as a female KGB sergeant carried in a samovar and a tray of torts. Since he had breakfasted at the Metropole, Taras restricted himself to a glass of tea.
“Mr. Chairman,” Taras said, avoiding the term “comrade,” which, in any case, nobody seemed to use anymore, “regardless of why I am here, here I am, and I intend to do my best. You know my record. But I must tell you, I seriously doubt that I can do anything to increase the physical safety of Alois Rybkin.”
“You’re saying we really don’t need you to protect the President, or to stop Major Jolly?”
“That is my opinion.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I share your view, and so, I believe, does everyone else in this room. Are you shocked? It is true. And I’ve told
Alois Maksimovich as much. We can and will protect our vozhd. That is our duty. But the stakes at Potsdam are high, and the President can be forgiven for wanting to have an extra card up his sleeve, and that extra card seems to be you.”
“If nothing else,” Rogovoy said, “bringing Major Arenskyhere keeps him from performing his normal CIA espionage duties.”
“If you’re going to make jokes, General,” Kelleher said to Rogovoy, “I suggest you learn to smile first.”
“Touché, Genrikh,” Biryukov said. “The fact is, despite the reservations we have both just expressed, we are not so foolish as to think we are invulnerable, or that we cannot learn from a man of your caliber, Taras Olegovich. The President was more impressed by your dossier than the assassin’s, Jolly’s, and remarked that you were certainly worthy of bearing the name of Gogol’s old Cossack hero, Taras Bulba...”
Arensky had, in fact, been named for the nineteenth-century Ukrainian poet and patriot, Taras Shevchenko, but he let Biryukov continue without interruption: “We have trained you well. And it is only natural that we would prefer that you use that training on behalf of your homeland. You see, I have come full circle. For this is precisely the opportunity before us. The question is, how can we best use you?”
Taras smiled. “I await your answer.”
“And we await yours. The question was not rhetorical. We are granting you a free hand, Taras. Tell us your thinking.”
“Well, if I’m supposed to track Marcus down, I obviously want to know where you think he is, or where you last saw him.”
“We don’t know where he is. No one does. As the English say, we’re just beating the bushes and following the hounds. Major Jolly was assigned to Novosibirsk with Marchenko, but never arrived there. Instead he disappeared. All we can get from GRU is that there was a confusion in orders and he was dispatched to Vienna on a deep-cover assignment—deliberately out of touch. So, no matter our demands, they say they cannot bring him in until he contacts them. Do we believe that? No, we don’t. We have been uprooting Marchenko’s network, link by link, much of it Spetsnaz-connected. If the assassin tries to contact it anywhere along the line, we will probably have him.”