The Kremlin Letter Page 15

  “That seems implausible,” said Rone. “Why would a man give up the possible control of Russia for money?”

  “I would have come to that point,” Uncle Morris said shortly. “Polakov explained that his contact feared the West would openly refute the authority of the letter. This would completely destroy his power. Also he was meeting resistance in forming his coup. There was a chance he might have to leave Russia under any conditions. He would need money for that.”

  “If just doesn’t sound reasonable,” Rone protested.

  “We were pot on the case then,” Uncle Morris rejoined acidly. “I can only report what was told to us. Anyway, half a million dollars was finally agreed upon. Part of the bargain was that Polakov would not have to go into Russia to get it, since he claimed his contact blamed him for the reversal.

  “Polakov was held in isolation. They tried to find his wife, but she had disappeared. The arrangement called for a deposit in a Swiss bank and the return of the receipt to Polakov. Polakov was to write a note. This note would be delivered to the contact at a specified rendezvous and the letter would be turned over. Everything was done according to instruction, and the agent was sent in. He never returned. Ten days later we were advised that he had taken his own life while being apprehended by Kosnov’s Third Department.

  “Polakov wrote a second note and another agent was sent in. He also did not return. He was captured, interrogated and executed by Kosnov. Luckily he had no pertinent information. He was not even sure whom he was to meet or what he was to receive.

  “It was then decided to send Polakov himself back in. He refused on a dozen pretexts and was apparently genuinely afraid. He was given an additional half million dollars in credits just in case his contact was holding out for the original sum. Polakov was escorted to the border. Two weeks later he was dead in one of Kosnov’s prisons.

  “At this time it was decided that the case should be given to a neutral agency. This move had been contemplated weeks before, and Sweet Alice and I had already been retained as observers. We do not know who our sponsors are even now. We have the cooperation of seven governments and money from them as well—but it could never be proved. We in turn subcontracted, if you will, to the Highwayman. It is only fair to tell you that we are making arrangements with other groups in case of foul weather.

  “Two additional bits of information have come through in the last week. The half-million-dollar draft which Polakov took with him into Russia has been drawn upon. It went to the same Swiss account we originally deposited the first half million in. We also know that shortly before Polakov’s death the entire amount was transferred out of that account. We are still trying to trace the circumstances.

  “The last item is unconfirmed. It claims that Polakov and Kosnov held a secret meeting in Paris four days after the letter was delivered. You will have to interpret this in your own way. It has always been my private conviction that Bresnavitch was the man for whom the letter was meant.”

  Rone checked out his papers and clothes. He thought about the Highwayman and Ward. Ward had been melancholy—the same sadness Rone had seen in the churchyard when they first talked. All through the training period he had noticed that the Highwayman had progressively less to do and say. Not that Ward tried to take over. He did not; in fact he was embarrassingly solicitous of his superior. It just seemed to Rone that Ward was running the show because the Highwayman was no longer able to. Something was happening that only Ward and the Highwayman knew about.

  There was a knock at the door. “You’re on,” said Buley.

  The floorboards of the converted World War II A-26 were lifted and Rone and Janis were helped out by a heavily mustached Turk. It was still dark, but Rone could see the outlines of mountains dead ahead. The pilot was flying at a very low altitude.

  The man with the mustache handed them two baskets full of fruit and two old, battered suitcases. Janis opened them quickly. One was filled with tea, and the other with oranges and lemons. Rone put the extra clothing he was carrying in the suitcase with the fruit. The man handed them steamship and rail tickets.

  “Where are the fish?” Janis demanded.

  The man pointed to a paper bag sitting near the wall. Janis tore it open and took out six long narrow packages and unwrapped them. There were six dried fish. Janis examined each one carefully. Then he nodded his head.

  “Damn good job, don’t you think?” he said, handing one of them to Rone.

  Rone held it in his hand and studied it. It looked like a fish, felt like a fish and smelled like a fish.

  Janis explained that it was a fish—inside of which was a compressed brick of heroin.

  The plane flew low over some high hills, soared up over a small mountain range and dropped into a valley, landing on a farm field without cutting its engines. Rone and Janis jumped out, carrying their baskets and suitcases.

  “That’s Tiflis behind you,” said the mustache, pointing north. “And Batum ahead. The mountain range to your right is the Caucasus.”

  Rone and Janis ran into the orchard a few yards away as the plane opened its throttle, jiggled along the uneven earth and took off again.

  “Welcome to Russia,” Janis said as he turned and headed through the orange trees for Tiflis.

  Ward stood in front of Da Vinci’s “The Virgin of Benois” in the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad. He was wearing a dark Russian business suit and overcoat.

  “Your first trip to Leningrad?” asked a guard, walking up behind him.

  “I was here once when I was a child.”

  “Where is your home?”

  “Minsk. We have a good museum there, but no Da Vinci.”

  “Ah, that is only part of it. We have twenty-five Rembrandts.”

  “Twenty-five Rembrandts?” said Ward in feigned amazement.

  “Twenty-five. And we have more by Rubens than you can count, not to mention Raphael and Titian.”

  “And what about our young Russian painters?” asked Ward. “In Minsk all we hear about is the new Leningrad school.”

  “Between you and me, comrade,” the guard said in a whisper, “they’re not worth the time it takes to look at them. Come. Let me show you our Michelangelo.”

  “Grodin,” Kosnov called into his intercom. “Come in at once.” Kosnov peered at the report on his desk intently.

  Grodin entered. “Potkin may have done it,” he said, handing the folder to his subordinate.

  Grodin thumbed through the dossier on Charles Rone. He had already read a copy at Bresnavitch’s. “This certainly could be a possibility,” he said.

  “Everyone is a possibility,” snapped the colonel. “But read the last two pages.”

  Grodin obeyed. When he finished he looked at Kosnov and asked, “Who is the Highwayman?”

  “A man in his sixties by now. He was an aide to Sturdevant—an excellent agent who died years ago. By all rights the Highwayman should have been dead before him. He was rotten with cancer fifteen years ago. I’m amazed he’s still breathing, let alone walking.”

  “But why would they send in a man like that with a novice like this Rone?”

  “Probably for the very reason that we’d never think of looking for that kind of combination. An unseasoned man and a useless one. Did you see how Potkin thinks they plan to enter the country?”

  “Yes, along the Kara Sea coastline. But it doesn’t make any real sense. Is Potkin sure?”

  “Potkin isn’t sure. He can only analyze his information. If they are training in Alaska, I wouldn’t expect them to show up at Baku.”

  “I still don’t understand it.”

  “That could be what makes it plausible. Even if the Highwayman is on his last legs he could still be a useful guide. He could get the Navy man into Moscow and tell him where to go from there. Two half-good men often add up to one excellent agent.”

  “But why land near the Kara Sea? There are easier ways to get into the country.” Grodin was still unconvinced.

  “How many agents
do we have in or around Vorkuta?” asked Kosnov.

  “I think only one—and he isn’t there half of the time.”

  “And where else do we have men in the north?”

  “The nearest place is Archangel.”

  “Three men covering a thousand miles of coastline.”

  “But even so, that’s very difficult country. It’s easier to find someone there than in Moscow.”

  “Then is it your suggestion that we ignore this report?”

  “No. But—”

  “But what?”

  “I will take proper precautions Comrade Colonel,” Grodin said in resignation. “And what about the Highwayman? Shall I go to the files for a photograph?”

  “You won’t find anything. He came from an age when espionage was an art. I doubt if a photograph of him exists anywhere in the world.”

  It had been a slow drive out of Vorkuta. The sleet and snow had kept the driver’s speed under twenty miles an hour. He was now on the coast road, and the wind from the sea hit the large Diesel truck in rapid gusts, rocking it back and forth. He decreased the speed, but even so he did not see the flare until he was almost on it. A man lay beside it on his back. He eased the truck to a stop and jumped down. The man was lying with his eyes open; he looked frozen, probably dead. The driver had been in the north a long time. He had seen many men freeze and many men die. This man looked as if he had been dead for a long time. Not hours, not days—even longer. Then who had lit the flare?

  The question was answered by the gun thrust into his neck. He raised his hands and saw two men move past him and pick up the frozen body. They placed it in the front seat. Then one of them jumped in beside it. He had silver hair and looked very old. The truck pulled away, leaving the driver alone on the frozen road with the two remaining men. They took him down the embankment to the sea. They walked carefully across the ice to a small motor-boat. He got inside as they shoved the boat into the water and started through the heavy ocean toward a blinking light in the dark. Half an hour later he was aboard a fishing trawler being given food and hot coffee.

  Rone and Janis walked through Tiflis at dawn. Old women, with crude brushes were sweeping the streets. They waited half an hour for a bus to Batum. Rone checked his watch. They were right on schedule; they would go by boat across the Black Sea to Odessa, then take a train to Moscow. There was a shorter route bypassing Batum and going to Sukhum and then from Sukhum to Moscow by train. This was an emergency route and would have been used only if the arrival in Tiflis had been delayed.

  The Georgians on the bus were friendly and cheerful. They laughed at Rone and Janis for carrying baskets of fruit, tea and fish, but apparently it was not uncommon. Many Muscovites made the long trip for just the same reason. Since the free market had opened in Moscow, merchants from that city were constantly traveling to the south to buy fruit and tea. Petty traders from Georgia also made the trip. Their bus companions told them they should take back champagne as well.

  They boarded the five-class boat at Batum, making sure to travel in the lowest class. The Puppet Maker had wanted them to go by boat because he felt they would have extra contact with people that they would not get on a train. This, he concluded, would give them even more opportunity to perfect their Georgian accents.

  It was growing colder in Leningrad. Ward was spending the day as any tourist might. From the Hermitage Museum he crossed the Neva and walked up Red Dawn Street to inspect the Peter-Paul Fortress and the Arsenal. He recrossed the river and did some shopping along the Nevsky Prospekt. In the late afternoon he stood looking at the Aleksandroskaya Column in the middle of Palace Square. A passerby told him it was over one hundred and fifty feet high and was the tallest monolithic stone monument in the world. Ward already knew it commemorated Russia’s victory over Napoleon in 1812.

  It was almost time. Ward walked briskly along the Twenty-fifth of Oktober Avenue until he reached the Oktober Station. The Moscow Express was late.

  21

  Moscow

  Rone and Janis moved into the apartment without incident. Potkin had notified the caretaker to expect his “nephews” from Georgia. They would be visiting the capital for a month, maybe more. Some friends would be joining them. There was nothing suspicious in this. Living space was at a premium in Moscow. Relatives were expected to take in other relatives. The caretaker did, however, notice something. There was a strong resemblance between Janis and Potkin. His wife vociferously disagreed. It was obvious to her that Rone, not Janis, possessed the family features.

  B.A. reached the Central Market by two-thirty. She strolled aimlessly among the open-air stands. Ukrainians, Armenians, Georgians, Latvians and others from every corner of Russia displayed their goods. Although fruits, vegetables and meats had been the original attractions of the market, other items were quick to appear. If you had the necessary rubles, the newly established “petty bourgeois” would sell you anything you wanted. When an item was not on display, arrangements for its procurement could always be made. The price for staples was reasonable, for luxury items excessive.’

  B.A. stopped to buy some limes. She reached inside her purse, brought out a worn leather wallet and paid the required kopeks. She put back the wallet and pushed her way through a crowd gathered in front of an adjoining stall. French and American phonograph records were on sale for approximately seven dollars apiece. She waited in line before an ice-cream stand which advertised twenty-five flavors. Once again she withdrew her wallet, paid out the kopeks and put it back in her purse.

  The man who was following B.A. was scarcely more than twenty-two. He kept close behind. He waited while B.A. finished a bottle of soda and moved into a crowd gazing down at Japanese transistor radios. The man slid into the crowd, brushed into her, deftly lifted the wallet and weaved his way into the open. The thief moved rapidly across the market and stepped behind a truck. He took out the money, stuffed it into his trouser pocket, threw away the wallet, moved back into the crowds and began looking for another victim.

  It wasn’t long before a Ukrainian merchant with a large roll of rubles caught his eye. The man had sold all his goods and was now buying presents before his return trip home. The pickpocket trailed at a distance. When the time was right he moved in, made his kill and retired to add more money to his growing cache.

  He was having a good day. Both his pockets were filled. He struck twice more within the hour. He was about to leave for the day when he spotted a housewife buying oranges. She walked the perimeter of a group clustered around the record stand. As she strained to see over their heads the thief moved in, reached down, opened her purse and took out the money. He shoved his way out of the mass of shoppers and returned behind the truck to count his take. Fifteen rubles. He pushed them, into his pocket only to find his other money was gone. He reached into his other pocket. It too was empty. He spun around. B.A. was leaning against the front fender of the truck displaying a thick wad or rubles.

  “Is this what you’re looking for?” she asked the thief. The pickpocket stepped back and glared at her. B.A. threw him the bills. “I’m new in Moscow. I wouldn’t want to fall in with the wrong people.”

  The thief caught the roll and held it. Then he smiled. He tossed the money back to B.A. “My name is Mikhail,” said the boy. “Come, citizeness, let me buy you vodka—only you’ll have to pay. Some bastard has made off with my earnings.”

  Ward reached the apartment at four o’clock. Rone was waiting for him. He was pleased to hear the men were already in the field. He washed, had some cold chicken, black bread and a glass of tea.

  “And now, Nephew, it’s time you found out just what you’re doing here. Unless you’d rather go sightseeing first?”

  “I had it in mind, but it can wait.”

  “That’s mighty considerate of you. Mighty considerate indeed.”

  They walked along Gorki, Street toward the Kremlin and Red Square. It was a brisk afternoon. The streets were exceptionally clean, cleaner than any Rone had seen in the West
. Muscovites came and went with an air of dispatch, and relaxation. If it had not been for the Russian printing in the shops and the cleanliness Rone could have mistaken the avenue for one in a dozen other cities.

  “Way back when we first met up,” Ward began, “you asked why we chose you. As I remember, I gave you some kind of answer or other at the time.”

  “You said I had the ability to let someone else die in my place and not give a good goddam,” Rone reminded him.

  “Is that what I said?”

  “To the word.”

  “Looks like you’ve got yourself one fancy memory.”

  “I remember what I want to.”

  “Total recall, isn’t that what they call it?”

  “It’s not total, recall,” Rone answered with irritation.

  “Well, it sure as hell impressed us, whatever it is. Back in New York you were given three or four times as much information to learn as the rest of us put together just so we could see. You remembered every last word that was told you. And you remembered it the first time you read or heard it. You gotta admit, Nephew Yorgi, there ain’t many men can go around doing things like that in broad daylight.”

  “Could you get to the point?”

  “I thought I was, or does it take some kinda extrasensory perception to realize we’re locked in Moscow? Our boys will be gathering a good bit of information. Now just what are we going to do with it? We can’t type it, ’cause we have no typewriters. We can’t tape-record it, ’cause we have no tape recorders. And we can’t scratch it out with pencil and paper, ’cause the Russians might find it. So you know what we’re going to do, Nephew? We’re going to tell it to you. You’re going to be our walking diary.”

  “In other words, I’m a glorified clerk?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say that I kind of see you as a two-legged computer.”

  “No, things have not been good,” said Madame Sophie with a sigh.

  She brushed the henna curls back from her ancient brow and sipped a cup of tea. Her overabundant torso was draped in a bright-blue velvet dressing gown with gold military-type braiding. Her bulbous toes were crowded into open-end gold mules. The nails were painted blue. “I am down to one girl. That thing there,” she told Janis as she pointed an elbow at a skeletal young woman in a faded red housecoat. “If I were a man,” she continued, “I would pay to keep something like that out of my bed, not in it. There is no more culture. There is no more love. Tenderness is dead. What’s worse, the girls have to work in factories, ten hours a day in factories. When they get back here and lie beside a man they are as romantic as a tin of sardines. Tell me, how is Dimitri?”