The Kremlin Letter Page 9

  “Is that what Colonel Kosnov is interested in? Making counterespionage work easier?”

  “I would suppose so.”

  “Suppose, Comrade Potkin?”

  “I am not informed of all of his plans. I only do what is asked of me.”

  Bresnavitch smiled condescendingly. “Comrade Potkin, your department has spent almost thirteen million rubles in the last two months. Whether I am supposed to know that or not, I do. The information did not come to me through my son-in-law here. It is immaterial if you believe that or not. Doesn’t thirteen million rubles seem rather excessive just to make work a little easier?”

  Potkin had no answer.

  Bresnavitch sat back and folded his hands under his chin. “What do you know about the letter?”

  “Wh-wh-what letter?”

  Bresnavitch and Grodin exchanged looks.

  “What do you think Kosnov is after?”

  “Polakov’s replacement,” answered Potkin.

  “Why should that be so important?” Bresnavitch leaned toward Potkin. “Why should it be worth thirteen million rubles in just your department alone?”

  “Ah—ah—I don’t know.”

  “But it does seem that this case is more important to Kosnov than any other he has handled?”

  Potkin thought. “It seems im-important.”

  “Do you know what Polakov was doing in Moscow?”

  “No.”

  “He was delivering a letter. A letter from the British. We have reason to believe that it was meant for a high Soviet official possibly as high as the Central Committee.”

  “Wh-what kind of letter?”

  “We believe it was an agreement.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “At least four major groups attempted to depose Khrushchev and take up his mantle. Each in its own way attempted to gather support within the Kremlin and the Central Committee. Every ploy was played, every lure offered to entice potential allies. As the competition mounted, risks were taken, grave risks—and sometimes foolish ones. As we all know, maneuverings in such situations are always open to misinterpretation—and misinterpretation often borders on, shall we say ‘treason’?”

  Bresnavitch moved across the room, picked up the carafe and returned to his seat.

  “One of the contending groups obviously tried to muster support from the pro-Western elements of the government. They apparently entered into some type of arrangement with the West. A written arrangement.”

  “The letter?” asked Potkin.

  “Exactly.” Bresnavitch poured himself a vodka. “The letter was proof of the agreement. Material evidence to gain support. We are not exactly sure what was in it, but it was a guarantee.”

  Potkin shook his head slowly. “This is the first I have heard of this,” he assured them. He analyzed what he had been told. “Then Colonel Kosnov is after the holder of the letter.”

  “It would appear so, wouldn’t it?” Bresnavitch sipped his drink contentedly. “But Comrade Potkin, the letter was never delivered.”

  “Wha-what?”

  “Polakov was apprehended before he could make delivery; apprehended by Kosnov.”

  “Then where is the letter?”

  “Where would you think?”

  Potkin hesitated. “Colonel Kosnov?”

  “Precisely. We believe Colonel Kosnov has the letter, but we do not believe he knows who it was intended for. That, as I see it, is the reason for Series Five. He hopes the new Western agent will lead him to the guilty party—or parties.”

  Grodin handed Potkin another drink.

  “Comrade Potkin,” Bresnavitch said firmly. “I want to get there before Kosnov does. And I want you to help me.”

  “But—but, ah—ah—I work for C-C-Colonel Kosnov.”

  “My dear Potkin, you work for him in an administrative capacity. This is a political issue. You cannot be simple enough to assume that Series Five is a routine intelligence operation. Kosnov has the letter but it is useless to him unless he discovers the intended recipient. Which group, which of the four was it meant for? Once this is determined, those men, or that man, will be politically in debt to their detector. That is what Kosnov is striving for and that is what I and my group want.

  “We have managed to stay out of this Khrushchev fight and remain unaffiliated. With additional votes at our disposal we will be one of the most potent forces in Russia.”

  Potkin felt perspiration break out along his brow. “You—you p-p-put me in a very difficult position.”

  “I once did you a service when you were in an even more difficult position, after the Hungarian trouble. I am not asking for repayment.”

  “Whatever you say,” Potkin told him.

  “Excellent. We simply want to know everything that happens in your department before Kosnov does.”

  “You will.”

  “There is another possibility,” Grodin said, moving behind Potkin’s chair. “The possibility that there never was a Western agent coming here in the first place.”

  “Ah—ah—I don’t understand.”

  “Comrade Potkin,” Grodin continued, “did it ever occur to you that the letter was intended for Colonel Kosnov in the first place? That Polakov was his man?”

  Potkin shifted uneasily in his seat.

  “An interesting concept, eh, Comrade?” beamed Bresnavitch. “What if Series Five is simply a sham to throw everyone off the colonel’s trail?”

  “I don’t believe it.” Potkin spoke before he could restrain himself.

  “Neither do I,” Bresnavitch confided, “but none the less we may have to prove it. If things don’t work out the way we wish them to—we might just have to prove it. After all, Colonel Kosnov is holding the letter.”

  The Highwayman walked quickly along the San Francisco street and entered the bar. He took a table near the postage-stamp stage. Lilly Laden was halfway through “Stormy Weather.” Five pocket spotlights played down on the marcelled blond tresses, the heavy eyeshadow and false lashes, the rouged cheeks and the thick, moist lipstick. A bright-red silk-brocade evening dress hung tightly from the bare shoulders.

  The Highwayman sent a note back to the dressing room. Lilly Laden joined him at the table.

  “You’re needed in New York,” he told the singer.

  “When?” asked the shrill hoarse voice.

  “Now. I’ll wait.”

  Lilly Laden went back to the dressing room, took off his wig and washed away the makeup. Ten minutes later the Warlock hurried out onto the street and fell in step beside the Highwayman.

  8

  The Puppet Maker

  Professor Martin Buley, the Puppet Maker, professor of anthropology, marched enthusiastically into the study.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he said, striding across the room and standing behind his littered desk. “It is good to see you. Please forgive the delay; I wasn’t expecting you until morning. Not that I mind nocturnal surprises. No, no. The sooner we get operative, the better. Time is gold.”

  He turned to the bookshelf and hurriedly began unloading volumes onto the cluttered desk. The Puppet Maker was slightly over six feet tall. Rone estimated him to be in the middle or late fifties. His long shallow face was divided by a thin upturned nose and dotted on both sides by two gray owl eyes. The fine black hair was matted close to his head and parted directly in the middle. It was cut in a severe bang and hung low across his rectangular, wrinkled forehead.

  Professor Buley placed himself efficiently behind the stacked desk, took out two folders and a yellow pad, sharpened a pencil, shot his cuffs, looked at Janis, and said, “Disrobe, sir.”

  Janis stood in his shorts as Professor Buley circled around him. He returned to the desk and made some quick notes. He was back a moment later examining Janis’ scalp and hands. Once again he returned to the desk and pad.

  “I understand you’ve done some wheat farming?”

  “Me? When?” asked Janis.

  Professor Buley threw open one
of the two files and withdrew a sheaf of papers.

  “You’ve spent a year and a half on a wheat farm and you speak rather broken Russian.”

  “I’ve never stepped foot on any type of farm and my Russian is excellent.”

  Professor Buley rocked back in his chair. “We all think we speak foreign languages well,” he said benevolently.

  “Well, I do. I lived there for five years.”

  “Come, come, let’s not exaggerate. You never set foot in Russia.”

  “I lived there for five years,” Janis repeated.

  Buley looked down at the records in front of him. “Might I ask what years?”

  “From ’33 to ’35 and then from ’37 to ’40.”

  The professor read from a page he held at arm’s length. “In 1935 you were seven years old and attending the third grade. You were lucky, in fact, ever to get out of it. In 1940 you were twelve and just graduating grammar school.”

  “Dammit, man, in 1940 I was with an assassination team trying to hit Beria—I never graduated from grammar school.”

  “Are you challenging the records?” Buley asked coldly.

  “Professor,” Rone interjected, “I think you’re reading from my file.”

  “Impossible. I am reading Mr. Nephew’s record.”

  “But I am Mr. Nephew.”

  The Puppet Maker shuffled the two files and nervously examined each of them. His eyes blinked and his nose twitched. “How odd,” he could be heard telling himself as he discovered his error. “How very odd.”

  Janis had finished and was enraged. The Puppet Maker had ordered him to shave his beard. Rone stood before Professor Buley in his shorts. The Puppet Maker examined his scalp. The nose and ears came next. All the while he kept up a running conversation.

  “Do you know much about archaeology or anthropology, Mr. Nephew?”

  “Only what I’ve read in National Geographic.”

  “Those people? Years back I did an expedition or two for them. Sticky lot. Would you mind opening your mouth?”

  Rone opened his mouth and Professor Buley examined his teeth with a dentist’s mirror and pick. “I prefer the Tillinger Fund. You have heard of the Tillinger Fund?”

  Rone, his open mouth filled with Buley’s fingers, tried to nod.

  “As you know, the Tillinger Fund is a New York-based operation. Philanthropic, of course.” The professor stood up. “Only two cavities. The great-grandfather Tillinger amassed his fortune in manganese or something like that.” Buley made some additional notes and began feeling the muscles in Rone’s neck and shoulders.

  “Like many other men of his day, great-grandfather Tillinger set up a charitable fund. It specialized in anthropology with a spare archaeologist thrown in now and then.” He was examining Rone’s back. “Anyway, his great-grandsons, the brothers Tillinger, now operate it. Dedicated clan. Gentlemen all. They sponsor five expeditions a year. Why not drop in on them when you’re in New York? I think you will find it interesting. Would you mind raising and lowering your arm?”

  Rone obeyed.

  “Smoothly and slowly,” the Puppet Maker suggested, “like a seagull.”

  Rone was next asked to take various positions. Buley felt the muscles again. He moved on to the legs.

  “I have some literature here,” he told Rone.

  “On what?”

  “The Tillinger Fund. I must insist you read it. Acquaint yourself with the facts. Would you mind bending over?” The professor checked his feet and ankles. He had Rone squat. Then kneel. He examined the knees, elbows and toes. The professor nodded his approval and walked behind the desk. Before sitting he remembered something. “Just one more thing, if you don’t mind. Then the examination will be finished. Drop your shorts a moment.”

  Rone obliged. The professor did not seem happy. He sat behind his desk.

  “No matter what location we pick remember that you were circumcised by a Jewish doctor. When you were a child your parents took you on a trip to Kiev. You caught a bad cold. The doctor they took you to was Jewish. He treated the cold. He suggested to your parents that you be circumcised. He pointed out its hygienic value. Your parents were peasants. They didn’t know the difference. They agreed. I know it’s a rather clumsy story, but it always seems to work.”

  “Then we’re going into Russia?” said Rone.

  “Of course. Was there ever any doubt about that?” asked Professor Buley. “You can dress now.”

  While Rone dressed, Buley was busy jotting down notes and checking reference books. Rone sat down. The professor kept writing. He stopped, leaned back in his chair, pressed his hands together and put them against his lips. He thought for a while and walked to a world map.

  “Do you know where Georgia is?”

  “In Russia or the United States?”

  “In Russia.”

  “Yes.”

  “First impressions are always the best. I think we’ll have you come from Georgia. This is only sketchy right now; we’ll work out the details later. The Georgians are physically big. You’d pass. You’re muscular enough to have done farm work. We’ll have to work on your accent, of course.” The professor handed a pad of paper to Rone. “There are several things I want you to start doing now. You had better write them out. First, let your hair grow. Especially the sideburns and on the back of your neck. Use no oils whatever. Only water. Another thing: Begin parting your hair more in the middle.”

  Professor Buley walked to a cabinet and took out some photographs. He gave them to Rone. “Here you see some typical Georgian farmers. These are from the north, these from the south. You will most likely end up coming from the south. Although we can’t be sure until your partner is picked.”

  “What about combs?” asked Rone.

  “I was coming to that,” said Buley, showing the first signs of irritation. “A wide metal comb will do. We will provide you with Russian combs as soon as we can get them. Until then, just plain metal. Let the hair in your nose grow out and do the same with the fuzz on your ears. Now for your teeth. Stop using toothpaste. Try to brush with your finger and use salt water. It’s the best thing for you anyway. If you have to use a toothbrush, do, but as I said, I’d rather you didn’t.”

  Rone kept writing.

  “Those two fillings will have to be replaced. Where you will be coming from they usually pull teeth rather than fill them. I think we can save you that discomfort, but we will have to find out just what they drill and fill with in that locale. Am I going too fast?”

  “I’m keeping up.”

  “Your vaccination must be covered up. I can give you a choice of two methods. Even though the time is short we could give you a skin graft. It won’t be perfect when we’re rushed like this. Any close examination will detect it.”

  “What’s the other choice?” asked Rone.

  “Scars. It’s quicker and less painful. Burns might work in this case. Searing parts of your arm not only covers the vaccination but allows a convincing story about war wounds. Unfortunately this method mars you for future assignments. You’ll undoubtedly need plastic surgery when you get back. This is all so nasty. I do wish we had the proper time, but needless to say we don’t. In this particular case I feel burns would be the most effective.”

  “Do whatever you think is best.”

  “Thank you. Next come fingernails and toenails. I’m not sure what instruments are used in your area. I’ll look into it and get you the proper equipment.” The professor took a thick notebook off the shelf behind him and began thumbing through it. He found the page he wanted, snapped open the binder and handed a sheet to Rone. “This is your diet. Start on it immediately. It will be difficult at first, since there is only eight ounces of meat per week. If you feel weak, just rest. Under no conditions take vitamins. They are too easy to trace in your system. Cut out all liquors. We will provide Russian vodka and Georgian wines in a week or two. Get used to drinking as little water as possible. Drink beer or milk for the time being.

  �
�If you can find somewhere to shovel dirt it would be helpful. Start off with half an hour a day and then after a week move it up to an hour. You’ll also have to work on your hands—the skin is too soft. You’ve had karate, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go back to the hand-building exercise with the sand pail. Fill it two-thirds sand and one-third dirt. Also twist a baseball bat or something that size in your hands until you start raising some calluses. I’ll send you a solution later to harden the skin on your knees and toes. Well, I think that should hold you for the time being.”

  Rone smiled. “I think it should.”

  “This will be your first time undercover, won’t it?”

  “Outside of this country, yes.”

  “Then I should explain something to you.” He looked over at Janis. “To both of you. No matter how many times you go across, this still must be understood. We will be going to great lengths to prepare your cover and to allow you to survive in foreign territory, but we cannot perform miracles. I have two objectives: first to acclimatize you to the regions you’ll be living in, and secondly to minimize your chances of being detected. If you are apprehended, there is some possibility you might be mistaken for Russian; it is not very probable. Any close examination will determine that you are not one of their own. In most cases it will pinpoint exactly where you are from. Remember this, and remember one other thing—close examination takes time, and that very time they spend on you may allow your associates to escape. Don’t be too quick to die.

  “In the provinces you should have little trouble. In Moscow it could be a different story.”

  The Puppet Maker cleared his throat and looked directly at Rone. “I am telling you this so you don’t overestimate what I can do for you. My primary objective is to get you from Georgia to Moscow without incident.”

  9

  The Erector Set

  Early afternoon rain swept along the Chicago pavement. Rone stopped in front of the shop window. The gold-leaf printing arced upon the glass stated: M. Berry and Son, Inc. Below it came two horizontal words: Models—Hobbies.

  A gentle girl with Botticelli grace and a melancholy look glanced up from behind the counter as Rone entered.