by Len Levinson
“Yes. That would be marvelous.”
“And you know there’s no future for you here. You’re liable to get purged any moment.”
“Especially after this incident.”
“How true.”
Butler rested his fists on Streptakovich’s desk and leaned toward him. “Come with us. There’s a brave new world waiting for you in America.”
“I don’t know—I’ll have to think about it.”
“You don’t have much time, Streptakovich.”
He gritted his teeth. “I know, I know.”
There was a knock on the door. Everybody sprang to their feet. Butler looked at Streptakovich. “Get the prisoner and dismiss the people who brought him. Don’t do anything strange. Otherwise I’ll have to shoot you, and I’d hate to do that in view of the warm relationship that has grown between us during the past two hours.”
“I quite understand,” Streptakovich said.
Streptakovich walked to the door with Sonia and Butler on either side of him. He opened the door and there were four KGB guards with a bedraggled individual who Butler figured was Dr. Kahlovka. The KGB guards all saluted Streptakovich, who looked at Kahlovka and sniffed.
“I’ll handle him now,” Streptakovich said in Russian. “You may return to your posts.”
“Yes, comrade,” the guards said in unison. They saluted, did an about-face, and marched away.
“Into my office!” Streptakovich ordered Dr. Kahlovka.
Like a frightened squirrel, Dr. Kahlovka skittered into the office. Butler shut the door and bolted it. Dr. Kahlovka wore baggy pants, an overcoat too large for him, and no shoes. He had a Lenin-style beard, his hair was mussed, and he looked like hell as he peered fearfully into the faces of Butler, Sonia, Streptakovich, and Lizaveta.
“Do you speak English?” Butler asked.
“Yes,” Kahlovka replied fearfully.
Butler smiled and held out his hand. “I’m Butler from the Institute. I missed you on the beach near Tallinn a fortnight ago, but you were unavoidably detained, I understand. Anyway, here I am again, and we’re going to the American Embassy right away. Don’t tell them anything there; save it for your debriefing at the Institute.”
Dr. Kahlovka looked as though his eyeballs would fall out of his head. “Where did you get the KGB uniform?” he stammered.
“That’s a long story.”
“How did you get in here?”
“That’s a longer story.”
Kahlovka’s trembling finger pointed at Streptakovich.
“Isn’t that the First Premier Deputy of the Communist Party?”
“It is.”
“Is he in the Institute too?”
“No.”
“Then what’s he doing here?”
“This is his office. It’s exactly where he should be. But he is cooperating for one reason.” Butler took out his pistol and twirled it around his finger.
“I see,” said Kahlovka.
Butler looked him in the eye. “We’re going to make a break for the U.S. Embassy right now. It’s possible that all of us might not make it. That young woman over there is Sonia Barsovina, also a member of the Institute. You’d better tell us all you know about the microwave machine right now, because if you don’t make it, the Institute won’t be able to stop the terror that’s threatening to engulf the world.”
Dr. Kahlovka raised his fingers in the air and wiggled them. “I don’t have the plans for how it’s made, but before I was arrested by the KGB I found out that they’re building it not in the Vasilkov Munitions Plant in Moscow as we previously thought, but in the Abdul Faheem Munitions Plant in Syria.”
“Syria?” Butler asked.
“Yes.”
“Why Syria?”
“Because the Russian generals want Syria to attack Israel with the new weapons and utterly vanquish her. The Americans, of course, will intervene, and that will give the Russians an excuse to intervene. The Russian generals hope to defeat the American Army in Israel, insist on unconditional surrender, then win all of America in the spoils of war, and get all the factories and cities intact. They figure that will be smarter than attacking the American mainland directly because the wealth of America would be destroyed.”
“When is all this supposed to happen?”
“A few weeks.”
Butler looked at Streptakovich. “Is that right?”
Streptakovich nodded sadly. “I believe it is.”
“But it’s crazy!”
Streptakovich shrugged. “There are a lot of fanatics in this country who are hungry to go to war. They control the government.”
Butler frowned. “There are a lot of the same kind of people in our country too.”
Streptakovich looked at the ceiling. “If there was only some kind of organization that was trying to put an end to all this madness.”
Butler grabbed him by the shoulder. “If there was, would you join it?”
“Of course. I want peace to come to the world so I can have a little restaurant someplace, where I can play my balalaika, and Lizaveta could welcome the guests.”
“There is such an organization, Streptakovich. Defect, and you can join it.”
“There couldn’t be such an organization!”
“There is, and it could use you. Will you join us?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to give it very careful consideration.”
“You don’t have time for careful consideration, Streptakovich. The shit is about to hit the fan. You’ve got to decide now.
Streptakovich put his hand to his forehead. “I can’t think under pressure!” He looked at Lizaveta. “Should we go?”
“Will I be able to live in New York City and buy my clothes at Saks Fifth Avenue?”
Streptakovich turned to Butler. “Will she?”
“Why not?”
Lizaveta clasped her hands together. “Then let’s go, Vassily!”
Streptakovich scratched his head. “I don’t know. I’d have to give up all this.” With a wave of his hand he indicated his office.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Butler said. “Streptakovich, you lead the way.”
They got their coats out of the closet and put them on. Then Streptakovich opened the door to his office and led them down the corridor. Butler looked at his watch—it was five o’clock in the morning. They passed under portraits of revolutionary heroes still in favor with the regime, and then rounded a corner. They saw coming toward them a man in a suit, smoking a cigarette and carrying a briefcase stuffed full of papers. As this man approached, Butler recognized his portliness and gorilla features as belonging to none other than the Number One Man in the Soviet Union, Leonid Brezhnev!
“Good morning Comrade Brezhnev,” said Streptakovich with a slight bow.
“Good morning, Comrade Streptakovich,” Brezhnev replied, looking curiously at the entourage following Streptakovich. He wrinkled his massive brow at the sight of Doctor Kahlovka in raggedy clothes and no shoes.
But the group of people continued walking purposefully. Butler expected Brezhnev to call for the guards at any moment and thought he might have to shoot the sonofabitch if that happened, but they came to the door and were out of the building without incident.
It was still dark and there was not even a suggestion of dawn. They walked across the cobblestones to Streptakovich’s limousine, and the driver was sleeping in the back seat as usual. Streptakovich woke him up, and the strange group piled into the car. Streptakovich sat in back with Sonia and Butler on either side of him, and in front with the driver were Lizaveta and Dr. Kahlovka.
“Drive to the United States Embassy,” Streptakovich told the driver.
“The United States Embassy?” the driver asked, astonished.
“Do as I say!”
“Yes, comrade.”
The limousine rolled over the narrow passageways inside the Kremlin. Butler thought of Ivan the Terrible and Czar Nicholas II and the great tumultuous history of Russia.
And here he was at the seat of power himself. He felt as though he were trapped inside a history book.
Streptakovich cleared his throat. “What if the people at the U.S. Embassy don’t let you in?” he asked Butler.
“They’ll let us in. The Marines on duty at all U.S. embassies are instructed to let through possible defectors, and that’s us.”
“Maybe not,” said Streptakovich.
“You’re not coming with us?”
“I don’t think so. My first loyalty must be to Mother Russia.”
“They’re going to string you up by your toes when all this is over, Streptakovich. Remember the fate of Leon Trotsky.”
Streptakovich shook his head. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have much time to make up your mind.”
“I detest making decisions under pressure.”
They came to the front gate of the Kremlin and the guards opened it up, saluting the car. They passed through the gate and entered Red Square. Already at that time of the morning a huge line had gathered in front of Lenin’s Tomb to see the preserved body of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, the leader of the Communist Revolution. The driver steered across Red Square, the only vehicle upon it that time of the morning.
And then in the distance they heard the sound of sirens. Butler spun his head around. A herd of cars with spinning red lights on top screeched around the corner of the Kremlin and appeared to be coming after the car in which Butler was sitting.
“Uh-oh,” said Butler. “They’re on to us!”
“Oh no!” cried Streptakovich.
Sonia leaned forward and stuck her pistol into the driver’s ear. “Drive to the American Embassy as quickly as you can, understand?”
“Yes, comrade.”
The driver stomped down on his accelerator, and the limousine leapt ahead like a tiger. It gathered speed and zoomed across Red Square, heading straight for the long line of people who’d come to see Lenin’s corpse. The people saw the car coming, realized it had no intention of stopping or slowing down, and scattered out of its way like barnyard chickens. Butler looked out the rear window and saw that there were six cars in pursuit, sirens wailing and red lights spinning on their roofs. There was the sound of a shot, and a bullet crashed into the trunk of the car.
“Everybody get down!” Butler said.
They all ducked except the driver, Butler, and Sonia, who kept her pistol stuck in the driver’s ear. Butler rolled down the rear window, turned around, stuck his pistol out, and fired at the pursuing vehicles. The buildings surrounding Red Square echoed with the reports of the guns. Butler gritted his teeth and fired round after round at the pursuing cars, realizing that this would be making page one of every newspaper in the world in a few hours. A bullet found its mark in the left rear tire of the car and the tire exploded, sending the car careening out of control. But the driver struggled with the wheel and brought the car under control again. He had made it across Red Square and zipped into Gorky Street, on which the United States Embassy was located.
It was a gray stone building like the other buildings in the area, and it was surrounded by a steel fence. Two marine guards were in front looking at the advancing cars and then at each other. They realized that one car was being pursued by six, and that maybe the one car contained defectors. They called for help on their walkie-talkie and then opened the gates.
“Drive right in!” Sonia told the driver, nudging his ear with her pistol.
“Yes, comrade.”
He spun the wheel to the right, the car turned and screeched, and shot into the compound of the United States Embassy. The Marine guards closed the gates and other Marines came running in all directions.
“Into the building!” Butler yelled, throwing open his door.
The six KGB cars roared to a halt in front of the Embassy gates, their headlights shining on Butler, Sonia, and Dr. Kahlovka running toward the door of the Embassy being held open by a marine.
Butler looked back as he ascended the stairs. “Come on, Streptakovich.”
Streptakovich sat in the car, chewing his fingernails. “I can’t make up my mind,” he whined.
“I can make up mine,” Lizaveta replied, “and I’m going!” She jumped out of the car and headed for the steps.
“But Lizaveta!”
She didn’t hear him; her head was spinning with dreams of fashions from Saks Fifth Avenue.
“I think I’m going to go too,” said the driver, pushing open his door.
“But comrade...”
“Up your ass, Streptakovich.” The driver got out of the car and ran up the stairs of the Embassy.
Streptakovich sat alone in the back seat of his limousine. He looked out the rear window and saw the KGB agents arguing with U.S. Marines. It appeared to be the type of situation that could set off an international incident. He tried to imagine what would happen to him if he didn’t defect, and remembered what happened to the soldiers who surrendered to the Germans during World War Two. When they were repatriated, they were sent to the slave camps in Siberia, and Streptakovich didn’t want that fate to befall him. I have no choice, he thought. The Americans probably will treat me better than my own people.
That made up his mind. He dived out the door of the car and began waddling toward the steps of the embassy.
“Comrade Streptakovich, where are you going!” shouted one of the KGB agents in front of the gate.
“To Disneyland!” Streptakovich yelled over his shoulder as he climbed the stairs.
Chapter Thirteen
Each of the defectors was put in a separate room with no windows and a guard at the door. Butler’s room was a small sitting room with two sofas facing each other and a number of chairs sprinkled throughout the room. On the wall hung a portrait of George Washington, and Butler stretched out on the sofa, his hands behind his head. He was safe. He’d done it again. And now he’d have to get to the nearest office of the Institute as quickly as he could to relay the latest information on the Doom Machine.
The door of the office opened and in walked a man of forty-five wearing a blue Brooks Brothers suit with white shirt and red tie. His bald pate had freckles on it, he had a nose like a button, and he looked as though he played tennis every day.
“Hi there,” he said, extending his hand to Butler.
“Hello.” Butler stood and shook his hand.
“No—don’t get up—that’s all right.” The man pulled up a chair and sat beside the sofa that Butler was using. “My name’s Hardy, Alfred Hardy, and I’m one of the assistants to the Ambassador.”
Butler smiled politely, but he knew this guy was from the CIA. Who else would want to interview a bunch of people who crashed through the gates of the Embassy?
“Rather exciting thing you just did, what?” Hardy said.
“Yes,” Butler agreed.
“Would you mind telling me your name?”
“Not at all. It’s Butler.”
“You have your passport with you?”
“Afraid not.” Butler patted the pockets of his KGB uniform. “This isn’t mine.”
“Can you tell me in your own words what has happened, Mr. Butler?”
“Well, I was in the Soviet Union on business, and for some reason the KGB picked me up and threw me in prison. I escaped with a few other people, managed to hi-jack a car, and made it over here.”
“That’s incredible!” said Hardy.
“But true,” replied Butler.
“What were you doing in the Soviet Union in the first place?”
“I was sent here by my company, the Bancroft Research Institute, to do some business with the Russians, but before I knew what hit me, I was arrested and put in prison.”
“You don’t know why?”
“Not at all.”
“Hmmmm. And did you ever see any of the other people before?”
“No.”
“Do you know who they are?”
“The guy who owned the car is evidently pretty high up in
the Soviet government.”
“Hmmmm. I see. Would you excuse me for a moment, Mr. Butler?”
“Sure.”
“Oh, by the way, could you give me your social security number?”
Butler did.
“Thank you. See you in a little while.” Hardy bounded out of his chair and headed for the door.
“Have you got a cigarette on you by any chance?” Butler asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Hardy spun around, returned to Butler, took out a pack of Marlboros, and gave him one. He lit it, then left the room.
Butler crossed his legs on the sofa and puffed the cigarette. He knew that Hardy would run his name and social security number through the computer and find out that Butler was an ex-CIA man with a strange past. He wondered what was going on outside the Embassy, and could imagine the frantic phone calls between the Kremlin and Washington. The Kremlin would insist on keeping everybody within the Soviet Union, and the United States would insist on bringing everybody out.
Presently Hardy returned to the room, a handful of paper in his hand and a frown on his face. He sat opposite Butler and looked him in the eye. “You were in the CIA, weren’t you Butler?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Oh, that’s going to make things very sticky, Butler. The Soviets already are claiming that you are all CIA agents, and they don’t even know the truth yet. What a stink they’ll raise. They’ll probably take it all the way to the floor of the United Nations. Um, you’re not still working for us are you?”
“No.”
“What did you say you were doing in the Soviet Union?”
“I was here on business.”
“What kind of business.”
“Looking for an office. My company was planning to open a branch here.”
“Hmmm. And you never saw any of those other people before?”
“No sir.”
“Hmmmm.”
Chapter Fourteen
Negotiations continued at the highest levels of the Soviet and American government while newspapers throughout the world told the story of the six who were being held incommunicado in the U.S. Embassy in Moscow. Left wing newspapers said they were CIA agents and it was all a big CIA plot to undermine the workers’ paradise, while right wing newspapers claimed they were freedom fighters and advocates of private enterprise. As usual, the public didn’t get the truth because the newspapers didn’t know what the truth was, and even if they did, they would have distorted it to fit their ideological point of view.