The Kremlin Letter Page 8

  “Do what you have to do,” the reply had come.

  He had explained that it would cost a great deal of money. A great deal of money in American currency. “Do what you have to do.”

  Potkin pulled out the receipts and thumbed through them. A total of $432,850 had been spread among eleven Iron Curtain and Middle Eastern countries before he had secured a list of language-aptitude scores for FBI agents working in the United States. From this he had been able to deduce those who might be capable of undertaking a Russian mission. The only thing was, he had had no way to evaluate the accuracy of his information—any of it. The material had been sent to Moscow with the receipts. Kosnov had also been dubious, but had expressed his gratitude for something to work from. He had relaxed. The worst was over. Four weeks had passed since Series Five had been initiated.

  Potkin turned to the most infuriating memorandum of them all. It conveyed Kosnov’s congratulations on the FBI information and informed Potkin that the same type of information was now being requested on ONI, OAI, congressional investigating committees, the attorney general’s investigating staff, union-investigating groups, industrial investigators, newspapermen, radio and television men—in short, anybody capable of carrying out a mission in Russia.

  Potkin flushed as he reread it. He patted the perspiration from his face. He turned to the memos on the conversation with Kosnov. He had claimed it would be absolutely impossible. He didn’t have the men, money or contacts to attempt such a project under expeditious conditions. He would have the men and money, he had been told. Even so, he had protested, the project was inconceivable. He had suggested a compromise. Use the language-aptitude approach that had finally proved acceptable in the FBI survey. A compromise had been reached. Complete investigations were to be run on Navy and Air Force intelligence personnel. The language survey could be used on the remaining groups. The currency had arrived. Agents Potkin never knew existed, many of them covert for ten or fifteen years, had appeared.

  Now, $1,800,000 later, his final reports were in Kosnov’s hands. There had been no immediate response. No pleasure or displeasure. No congratulations. He had waited three days. Then, yesterday, he had been ordered to Moscow.

  Colonel Kosnov’s limousine drove slowly through the side streets. Potkin put the files back into the briefcase with the exception of the ONI and OAI records. He assumed these would be their main concern at the meeting. He tried to read them but his concentration was elsewhere.

  Why the investigation in the first place? he asked himself. The information had covered only overt operatives. What about the undercover agents that nobody knew about? Kosnov was too old an intelligence hand to assume he had canvassed the entire field. What had suddenly become important enough about Polakov’s successor to initiate such expense and danger for something that was incomplete? What did Series Five have to do with the Bresnavitch-Kosnov feud? What did Bresnavitch mean by “this letter business”? What would happen at that damned meeting?

  It is bad coming back to Russia on short notice, Potkin told himself, putting the last two reports back into the briefcase. He turned and watched the crowds walking happily toward Red Square. His daughters had always loved the parades. He must bring them back soon to see one.

  The crowds grew larger. Workers, athletes, soldiers, women and children, many dressed in the regional costumes of the Ukraine, Latvia, Georgia and a dozen other Soviet domains swarmed along the sidewalks and curbs. The sound of band music could now be heard. They were less than five minutes from Third Department headquarters. Potkin reached into his pocket and took out the typewritten list his wife had given him:

  IMPORTANT

  APARTMENT:

  1. Give Anna’s winter coat (in box under her bed) to war widows’ fund.

  2. Bring back Sonia’s diary. (Hidden in bottom of her bird cage--and don’t read it.)

  3. Make sure kitchen window is fixed.

  4. Make sure shades are pulled down and tacked before leaving.

  5. Before leaving turn electricity off in basement rather than in hallway.

  6. Don’t forget to lock door when leaving.

  MESSAGES:

  1. See my mother.

  2. See Zora’s mother and father (if time permits).

  3. Call Petrov and tell him Sonia hasn’t forgotten him even if she doesn’t write.

  4. Call Ilya Manilow (General Grudin’s grandson) and explain that Anna’s school does not allow girls to take mechanics but that she wants to be a pilot.

  PURCHASE:

  1. Buy caviar (as much as possible).

  2. Don’t buy vodka.

  The car came to a sudden stop, Potkin looked up. The street was jammed with people heading to the parade. Two militsioneryi stood in front of the limousine. The driver jumped out and talked with them. He returned to the car and opened the back door.

  “I’m sorry, comrade, but the street is closed,” he explained. “I’m afraid you’ll have to walk from here.”

  “That-tha-that’s all right,” Potkin replied, unperturbed. He gathered up his briefcase and the package for Bresnavitch. The driver helped him out.

  “I’m afraid you’ll be late,” the driver told him apologetically.

  Potkin shrugged. He took a look at the jubilant crowd, lowered his head and began walking.

  Colonel Kosnov also ignored the parade. He stood in the operations room, his back to the other officers, and looked out the window. Below him lay Red Square. The October winds already warned of another long, arduous Russian winter, but tens of thousands of marching Muscovites acted as if spring had just arrived. Kosnov did not need to look at them. He had seen it all before. It was always the same no matter what the occasion. The tight columns of marching soldiers, the mobile equipment, the rockets, the endless legions of workers and the signs they carried—Long Live the Glorious Communist Party Founded by Lenin, Long Live the Soviet People, Builders of Communism. It was always the same.

  Today, however, one thing was different. On top of the Lenin Mausoleum stood a single line of men: Khrushchev was no longer among them. Kosnov stared at them and at the cosmonauts in whose honor the parade was being held: Colonel Komarov, Dr. Yegorov and the scientist Feoktistov. The trio had orbited the earth in one rocket. A major triumph on any other day. Today the exploit was secondary. The eyes of the world were on those who stood beside them: Leonid I. Brezhnev, the new first secretary of the Communist Party, and Aleksei N. Kosygin, the new premier of the USSR.

  His private telephone rang. He crossed the room and answered it. Communications Security informed him of the conversation between Potkin and Bresnavitch. He nodded and hung up. He looked at his staff seated around the table. Lieutenant Grodin sat to his left. He was Bresnavitch’s son-in-law. Potkin and he would go into the Bresnavitch camp. They knew about the letter. Grodin had undoubtedly told his father-in-law. Captain Meyeroff and Captain Mirsk sat opposite each other. They must be counted with Kosygin: He doubted how much they knew about it. The same was true for Colonel Targen and Lieutenant Bulov. They were Brezhnev’s contingent. Captain Petrovsky leaned toward Suslov. Major Maslin still sided with Khrushchev, but he would get over that.

  The conference phone rang. Lieutenant Grodin picked it up.

  “Captain Potkin is on his way up,” he told the others.

  “I regret being late.”

  Potkin stood at the door. He walked to the conference table, took his appointed seat, lifted his briefcase in front of him, folded his hands over it, and stared straight ahead. A thin ring of perspiration rose on his brow.

  “Captain Potkin,” Kosnov began.

  Potkin sat tensely straight. His emotionless face turned mechanically toward the colonel.

  “Let me commend you and your department on an extraordinary accomplishment. We had asked for the impossible and you have come quite close to fulfilling that request.”

  Potkin stiffened. What does he mean by quite close? he asked himself.

  “If the other international offices w
ere as efficient as yours we would indeed have a magnificent organization.”

  Potkin withdrew his hands from the briefcase. He smiled rigidly. He was safe.

  Kosnov continued. “We have studied your reports with great interest. Understandably, questions have arisen. That is why we asked you here.”

  Potkin nodded.

  “Let us start with the CIA. Your report shows that only ten new assignments were given over the last six weeks, and some of them, according to you, appear relevant. How do you arrive at this conclusion?”

  Potkin relaxed. “Th-the standard briefing time for ordinary cases is under two weeks. Mo-mo-most usually a-a we-we-week or less.”

  “Are you sure of this?” asked Kosnov.

  “It has been true in the past,” Potkin managed.

  “And these ten briefings were all under two weeks?” asked an officer whom Potkin had never seen before.

  “Ah-ah-all were under one week. And all men were sent to standard operating offices.”

  “All but one,” Kosnov interjected. “A Mr. Lyman Smith.” He looked in the file. “According to your report, Mr. Smith was to be sent to Cairo as an architectural consultant to a housing project. That is correct, isn’t it?”

  Potkin thumbed through his report. He found the pages.

  “Th-th-that is correct.”

  “He never arrived in Cairo,” stated Grodin.

  Potkin stiffened.

  “However,” said the man Potkin did not know, “on the day Mr. Lyman Smith was supposed to arrive in Cairo, a Mr. Theodore Webber arrived in Budapest—as an industrial consultant. We have a photograph of Mr. Webber sent to us from Budapest.” The man pushed it across the table to Potkin. “It bears a strange resemblance to the photograph you provided of Mr. Lyman Smith.”

  Potkin compared the picture with the one in his file. It was the same man. Webber? Smith? He opened his briefcase and thumbed through it. Webber? Smith? He remembered something about Smith. What was it? He knew the men at the table were watching him.

  “When did you say Webber arrived in Budapest?” Potkin asked without a stutter. He seldom stuttered under real pressure.

  “On September 12,” replied his assailant.

  “And when had I stated he was due in Cairo?”

  “On September 12.”

  Potkin shuffled through some more papers. He found the one he wanted. “Here is my master report. ‘Arrival due between September 12 and September 20.’”

  His adversary looked down at his own report. “Mine says only September 12.”

  “Have you the actual report or a summary?” Kosnov asked.

  “A summary,” the man answered. “But it makes no difference. Even if the date was between the 12th and the 20th. The man still showed up in Budapest, not Cairo.”

  Potkin relaxed. “He delivered a cake.”

  “He did what?”

  “He delivered a cake,” Potkin repeated. “An angel-food cake with vanilla frosting. Sprinkled with red candy dots. It was a birthday cake for a Mr. William Novak, Mr. Novak’s mother, who is a close friend of the director of the CIA, baked a cake for her son. At the last minute Mr. Smith was asked if he would deliver it on his way to Cairo. He did so. Then he went on to his assignment. If you will check you will find he is now in Egypt.”

  “Then why weren’t we notified?” demanded the man.

  “Be-because he arrived in Cairo on the 18th. Well within the t-t-time limit we specified.”

  “He could have been delivering a message in Hungary. Something could have been in that cake.”

  “I was only asked wh-where he was going and when. Not what he was going to do on the way.”

  “That is understood,” said Kosnov. “But what percentage of operatives have you now investigated? Let us forget about the cake.”

  “Approximately eighty-five percent of the agents. We are still working on the remainder.”

  “Not at all bad,” replied Kosnov. “Were you able to bring the data on recent discharges and retirements? This has a low-priority potential rating, but it is still worth having in the machines.”

  In the week before Potkin’s trip to Moscow, Kosnov had requested information on agents who had retired, been discharged or were on leave. Only names had been asked for. No records. That would come later.

  “I have re-re-retirement and discharge.” Potkin opened his briefcase and passed copies around the table. The list contained one hundred and thirty-three names. They decided to initiate investigation on those who had left the service after Polakov’s death. This left fifty-nine. The forty-second name read: Rone, Charles Evans, USN, (ONI), Lt. Comd., Disch. Oct. 10, 1964.

  Colonel Kosnov left the party at precisely nine o’clock. Potkin remained. He had spent the first part of the evening trying to find Bresnavitch. He finally gave the package to Bresnavitch’s son-in-law Captain Grodin. Potkin tasted the food sparingly. He drank two glasses of vodka. He did not see Brezhnev or Kosygin. Potkin had been told they would be there. Perhaps they hadn’t arrived. Perhaps they had left. Mikoyan was there. Suslov was not. Suslov was sick, it was said. Could one believe it? There were a few other notable absences. Khrushchev, of course. The Chinese, naturally. Potkin idly wondered if Maya and the children were all right. He had been backed against the wall by a bearded Cuban with a large cigar and an impossible Spanish accent to his rudimentary Russian when Grodin summoned him. He followed him up the marble staircase and into the library. It was a warm, wood-paneled room with a carved stone fireplace. Logs were burning. Bresnavitch was standing beside the desk examining the contents of the package Potkin had brought him. It was a small oil painting. There was an expression of reserved ecstasy on his face.

  “Superior, is it not?” Bresnavitch called out to Potkin.

  “Yes.”

  “Come closer. Come closer. You can hardly make it out from that distance.”

  Potkin did as he was ordered. He stood studying the picture. He did not like art. He did not understand it. He slept at the ballet.

  “Now what is your opinion?”

  “It is very pretty.”

  “It is more than that. It is one of his best. It is superior. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know that you were carrying a Klee?” Bresnavitch asked.

  “No.”

  “What did you think was given you then?”

  “Just a package.”

  Bresnavitch was glowing with pleasure at his new acquisition. He played with Potkin. “Just a package?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not even a picture?”

  “No.”

  “You must have felt the frame? You must have wondered what it was?”

  “I have carried too many packages for too many people to begin wondering what is inside. This time it was something of beauty. On other occasions it might have been otherwise.”

  Bresnavitch laughed. “That is our Potkin. The eternal logician. If it had been me I would have peeked. I cannot bear not knowing everything that is going on.”

  Bresnavitch put down the painting, led Potkin to a deep leather chair beside the fireplace and seated himself opposite him.

  He leaned toward Potkin. “Tell me, comrade, which one do you think it will be?”

  “What?”

  “Who will be the victor? Brezhnev or Kosygin?”

  “Ah—ah—ah—I have no—no—idea.”

  “Come, Comrade Potkin,” coaxed Bresnavitch, “you must have discussed it with someone. Your wife, perhaps?”

  “No. No one.”

  Bresnavitch displayed a long and practiced frown. “Comrade Potkin, this is 1964. Lenin and Stalin are dead. Beria is gone. The Soviet Union is no longer a dictatorship. We are now powerful, prosperous, educated. Our strength has always been our ability to adjust—to the worst as well as the best. Comrade Suslov is still a Stalinist. He is heard. We reject his ideas rather than eliminate the man. The Central Committee rules the country. It is many men with many opinions. Th
ey do not have to be in agreement. But they cannot be ignored. Comrade Khrushchev found this out the difficult way.”

  “I still ha-ha-haven’t thought about it.”

  “Of course you’ve thought about it, just as every Russian, European, American and Oriental has thought about it. Just as Brezhnev and Kosygin themselves have thought about it. We delude no one. It takes no dialectics to prove that only one man can rule, be it communism, capitalism or monarchy. History has been quite specific in this point. We are all speculating on the ultimate victor. It has become the national Russian pastime. The way things stand now I say it will be Suslov. What about you, Grodin?”

  “I would say Kosygin.”

  Bresnavitch made a long face and turned to Potkin. “And you, comrade, what is your guess?”

  “Ah—ah—I haven’t given it any thought. You—you must believe me. I have no opinion.”

  “But you are Russian. This is your country and your future,” Bresnavitch said sternly. “What is more, you’re a member of the Communist Party.”

  “Ah—ah—I have been working. I haven’t had time to do anything else.”

  “It is exactly what you have been working on that could seriously alter the situation in the Kremlin.”

  “I don’t understand,” Potkin said.

  “What do you think Kosnov is up to? What do you think the real motive is for Series Five?”

  “Ah—ah—I would ra-ra-rather not talk about it.”

  “But you will talk about it, my dear comrade, that is exactly why you are here. I am asking you again: What do you think is behind this mania Colonel Kosnov has developed for Series Five?”

  Potkin grew calm as he turned to subjects that were within his own realm of competence. “I think it can be of great value.”

  “In what way?”

  “Complete knowledge of enemy agents and their locations makes all counterespionage work much more easy.”