Document Z (5 page)

Kislitsyn opened the bonnet and tugged at the hoses. With a towel, he opened the radiator cap and a thriving hiss came boiling out. He put his hand wherever it would reach, searching for little mechanical mysteries. Nothing helped.

After a few minutes a utility appeared. Both men watched as it came over the lip of the horizon, slowed, and then went somewhat past them before stopping. It reversed and came off the road. A man and a boy got out, the man quite fat, the boy in shorts.

‘Fellas got trouble,' said the man.

‘Yes,' said Kislitsyn. ‘This car won't start.'

‘Working the Snowy?'

Kislitsyn didn't understand.

‘New blokes?'

‘Yes,' said Petrov.

‘Right,' said the man. He bent into the engine. Umms and ahhs. Petrov turned and took note of the utility's plate number, and saw that the boy was picking pebbles from the road and throwing them with cocked arm towards the paddock, trying to hit a fencepost.

‘Beats me. I've got a tow rope. Queanbeyan alright?'

Kislitsyn looked to Petrov. Petrov said, ‘Yes, alright.'

The car lurched onto the road, pulled by the axle. Petrov sat steering. Kislitsyn asked how much they should pay this farmer. Petrov wasn't sure. They would let him suggest the figure.

In Queanbeyan, there was activity on the streets: morning traffic, small trucks and sedans, a school bus. A handyman's utility went past, strung with ladders, paint tins and tools, the handyman smoking and staring at the car on tow. The farmer brought them to a halt by the service station and Petrov got out. He shook the farmer's hand and thanked him and shook his hand again. They undid the tow rope together and then Petrov sent Kislitsyn into the station to get an ice-cream for the boy. The boy said a polite thankyou, the farmer gave them a nod and the utility drove off.

‘He didn't ask for money?' said Kislitsyn.

‘No, nothing at all.'

The response came a fortnight later:
Concerning Secret Hiding
Places For Documents.
Petrov sat decrypting, substituting code-words, revealing piecemeal the message and its sting. Moscow was not impressed. The hiding places were defective, they wrote. It was their opinion that a crack between the boards of a railway bridge was substandard because railway bridges were probably inspected by appropriate persons and, upon the outbreak of ‘exceptional circumstances', would likely have military guard. They complained that he hadn't sent sketches of the areas nor an explanation of the signalling system to be employed. They thought the selections much too close to one another, facilitating easy detection by counterintelligence. To right their errant station leader, they included fifteen paragraphs of secret hiding place advice, including a small treatise on the destructive habits of rodents.

Petrov read and re-read. It was their masterly tone that irked him most, as if he wasn't a colonel in the MVD but a Komsomol scout who couldn't pitch his tent. He got a small bottle of whisky from the bottom drawer and drank. He raged a little. It was clear the writer wrongly believed the railway bridge to be over a river and not a road. He wondered who it was, this petty bureaucrat without the clout to sign his name, content with his missive and sitting at lunch in the canteen. It wouldn't be Sparta, but it might be someone with his ear.

Shadows down there that were blunt, suffering from a lack of contrast, losing their conspiratorial edge. ASIO had just left. From the window of his third-floor surgery at 195 Macquarie Street, Michael Bialoguski, a tall figure with a goatee beard, was looking down at parked cars, memorising numberplates for practice. It was a few minutes after 10 p.m. and the new handler had just visited. Michael Howley, Attorney-General's Department, D Branch. They shared the coincidence of a first name and the doctor liked the fact. Howley seemed less regimented than his former handlers, younger, with an edge to his voice that the doctor hoped concealed a desire for action over surveillance—but with these ASIO types, who knew. Bialoguski was considering the change to counterespionage a promotion, and once there was a rapport, he'd find a way to secure a raise. Not that that was his motivation. Just that, for the time and resources invested, he was terrifically underpaid.

Did he have money problems? The answer wasn't always clear. His medical practice in these rooms was busy enough but it was all contract and lodge, a shilling a week for un-limited treatment, and he was making little headway on his loans. It was a problem of his background. His was one of the more popular surgeries on Macquarie Street, but his clients were New Australians, Balts and Poles like himself, hardly a well-financed segment of the social order and a difficult base from which to make a fortune. So he had other incomes and projects. His violin and his orchestral work, for example. He was playing for the famous conductor Eugene Goossens as a member of the Sydney Symphony Orchestra, a much-loved but again underpaid commitment, part of his own plan to one day conduct. Then there were other services he provided: women's procedures that weren't particularly good for his practising licence, but whose execution he considered to be an enlightened—and sometimes well-paying—responsibility.

His practice had two rooms: this small consulting office, and a second he used to keep supplies. At the end of the corridor was a reception area he shared with Halley Beckett, an ophthalmologist. The 195 building was medical men top to bottom, most of whom were part-time or retiring. Bialoguski had moved in two years ago, having transferred his practice from Thirroul.

He collected his keys, locked up and made his way down to the car park at the building's rear. Buick Sedan, BN 422 (white). Velox Tourer, EK 732 (white). Nineteen forty-nine Pontiac, DL 902. Howley had wanted to know about his political persuasions. He'd told the ASIO man he didn't have any, unless you counted believing in the rights of the individual and being against fascism of any kind. This was the only part of their conversation that had annoyed him. How was it relevant, his politics? He didn't have a view, not in the way they meant it in this country, whose political scene was, in comparison to where he'd come from, essentially simplistic. Which wasn't a bad thing. A two-party system, where the close balance between Labor and Liberal meant that elections were decided by voters of no fixed allegiance. This, he thought, coupled with the fair observation that, when voting, most Australians put instinct above processes of rational thought, was a recipe for a good democracy, where ideology—of any kind—found it diffi-cult to get ahead. Not that this excused the country—through his paid agency—from keeping at least some kind of eye on the revolutionary beast.

He drove home through the city towards Point Piper. The Cliveden was a luxurious apartment building, in the deeper fold of Blackburn Cove. The flats had a palm garden and an outdoor pool and a view into the harbour over Double Bay. He was living in number nine, the property of the Poynters, patrons of the orchestra who were on sabbatical in London. The best feature at Cliveden was in its garages: each had a revolving floor. He parked in garage number nine, hit the switch and watched his Holden arc.

The flat was on the fourth storey. All conveniences, three bedrooms, including one for a maid. He kept things tidy because, where this place was concerned, there were appearances to maintain.

He poured a nightcap and sat in darkness looking at the view: Sydney nearing midnight and at half-light. Howley's talk had been full of promise. He'd be targeting the embassy now. Forget the petty communist émigrés and romantic left-wing dupes he usually hung around. Cultivate Pakhomov, the Soviet Tass journalist, in particular. See what shadowy contacts of his could be unearthed. The mission impressed Bialoguski greatly. He'd arrived in Australia almost ten years ago, landing with only a violin and thirteen pounds. He'd paid his passage using diamonds from a toothpaste tube. And look at him now: a qualified doctor and a state-sanctioned spy, living rent free in a luxury flat. Still, it wasn't quite enough. He'd given a lot here. This country owed him.

5

A
n interesting letter arrived at the Soviet embassy. It was on purple paper and written carefully in Russian. The sender, a man named Arkady Wassilieff, wrote that he was ‘the holder of progressive views'. He said he ran an aviation factory in Melbourne. Government contracts. He said he had an industrial secret that he wished to share.

Petrov showed the letter to Kislitsyn, who suggested it might be a Security trap. Petrov wasn't so sure. He checked the embassy's consular record to find that Arkady Wassilieff had been denied a Soviet visa at the close of 1949.

He was in Melbourne two weeks later. He spoke to Zizka at the Czech embassy beforehand to get some idea about the city, asking what the man knew of good places to stay. Kislitsyn had tried to accompany him, but Petrov persuaded him to stay on the grounds that the Moscow couriers were soon to arrive. Really, it was just that he wanted the freedom in Melbourne to do as he pleased. He wanted to go anonymous and unrecorded. He wanted to act like a man not watched.

He arrived at Spencer Street by sleeper train, and had a haircut at Solomon's Barber Shop in Collins Street, at the hands of Isaac Tyger, a Pole who distributed Soviet literature to his clients. The haircut was a good one. Isaac spent the entire time talking world affairs and refused to let Petrov pay. Afterwards, he walked to Flinders Street Station and dropped into the pub on the corner of Swanston Street. He felt good, clean and good; 9.30 a.m. with a beer and a cigarette, watching the steps of the station where men in suits broke from the turnstiles onto the street, checking hats and watches, feeding the Monday busyness. After a time, he waved to the barman for a second glass and the second glass came and he savoured it even more than the first. A boy arrived with a stack of newspapers, and he sat reading and drinking and watching the sunlit activity. Just past midday he checked into the hotel on Bourke Street that Zizka had recommended. He sat in the room there for a moment looking through his pockets, making sure he had the Czech's other suggestions: a Collins Street watchmaker and an address in Fitzroy.

He took the tram to Clarendon Street, the ride much smoother than any of Moscow's trolleys. As the tram crossed the river, he produced a map and pretended to consult it while trying to get a view of the three men he thought were following him. The one with the moustache, staring carefully now at a timetable—he'd been smoking on the footpath outside the hotel. Definitely. That thin black tie. About the other two he wasn't certain, but they had the feel of a unit and certainly looked the part. Petrov winced. He didn't want these kinds of problems in his day.

The conductor stood in the tram's centre by the doors. Petrov approached him and loudly asked directions to a fake address. Then, at the next stop, he jumped from the tram just as the doors closed, striking out east at pace, checking over his shoulder. None of the men got off.

The factory was a white-bricked building, sparking flecks of iron and a deal of deafening noise. Arkady Wassilieff shook his hand at the entrance and led him to an upstairs office with glass windows overlooking the factory floor. They stood there watching, and Wassilieff opened them each a beer.

‘Aircraft,' the man said, pointing to a particularly large machine. ‘This one coils wire for the Stratocruisers. The wire is used for all purposes and each plane requires two thousand feet.'

The industrialist in Petrov was impressed. Wassilieff pointed again. ‘Those vats you see are new. I am trying to refine the glue used to seal internal fittings for low pressures. The chemistry is fascinating, I assure you.'

They sat down at a small desk. Covering the walls of the office were rosters and diagrams and photographs of racehorses.

‘I have made some modest scientific discoveries here,' said Wassilieff. ‘Currently, the Australian government has the total benefit, but I think all of humanity should have it too.'

The man had a mousy face, Petrov thought. ‘Two years ago you asked for a visa,' he said.

‘Yes, I have relatives in Russia. In Voroshilovgrad.'

‘Voroshilovgrad? A visa there would be difficult. Moscow is better. Get a visa for the capital.'

‘No, no,' said Wassilieff. ‘I want only to visit Voroshilovgrad. You know how it is. Men do well and they want to visit their past.'

Petrov said nothing.

‘Listen,' Wassilieff pleaded, ‘you don't need to worry about me. When we were boys, Marshal Voroshilov and I were in the same union. He may even remember. I could perhaps write to him, but I want to use the regular channels, which is why I aim to prove my loyalty to you.'

‘Tell me about this loyalty.'

Wassilieff had Petrov stand once more at the window. He pointed to a third machine on the floor. It was spherical, two alternately rotating discs that were pressed tightly together, moving fast. ‘Hard-wearing aviation ball bearings,' Wassilieff said. He showed Petrov a glass jar brimming with pellets. ‘Their life span is twenty times that of regular stock.'

Petrov picked one up. It was hard. He held it to the light.

‘I have developed a secret process to produce them in large numbers,' said Wassilieff. ‘Each bearing is a small enigma, exactly the same. There are no defects at any stage. Consider that. It is a perfect process. Place one in each hand and I can almost swear you are holding the same number of atoms.'

Petrov took a fistful. They felt like futuristic gunshot, each its own galactic sphere.

‘Take them,' said Wassilieff.

Petrov held the jar. ‘I don't know,' he said. ‘It is likely we have this technology already.'

The factory owner put his fingers on his chin. ‘Yes, of course. But take it anyway, for
comparison
. And if the Soviet engineers would like to compare their processes to mine, you let me know. I will send them everything I have.'

‘Just to compare.'