Parallax View (2 page)

This was why he
worked in exhausted solitude at his desk while the rest of Moscow slumbered.
This was why he risked everything. For his beloved country. He yawned and
rubbed his eyes. He whittled down the list of potential couriers in his mind.
He chewed on them endlessly until he decided on the perfect candidate.

Aleksander
Petrovka’s official title was Undersecretary for Domestic Affairs. Aleksander
would do as instructed, particularly if properly motivated. He was fairly
intelligent for a party apparatchik, maybe even intelligent enough to pull off
what Mikhail needed of him.

Tomorrow they
would talk, and Mikhail would put his own plan in motion, the one which would,
with any luck, negate the KGB’s. He would dispatch Petrovka to East Berlin on
the first available plane. The KGB would know something was up but would not
have time to stop him, provided Mikhail acted quickly and decisively.

He nodded, alone
in his office. Having decided upon a courier, Mikhail felt a great weight
lifting from his shoulders. The plan would either work or it would not, but
solidifying things, even if only in his mind, made Mikhail feel better, like he
was accomplishing something of significance. He straightened in his chair and
got back to work.

3

The Kremlin, Moscow

May 29, 1987, 10:10 a.m.

Aleksander Petrovka was suspicious
and nervous—Mikhail could see that the moment the man entered his office.
Petrovka worked in the Kremlin as a member of Mikhail Gorbachev’s personal
staff, but his status within Gorbachev’s inner circle was not so lofty that he
had ever had occasion to take a private meeting with the general secretary.

“Aleksander,” he
said, rising and extending his hand. It was critical he put his underling at
ease.

Petrovka shook his
hand uncertainly. “You wished to see me, sir?”

“I did,” Mikhail
said, smiling. “Let us stroll the grounds.” He knew this development would
arouse further concern in Petrovka, but it could not be helped. His office was
certainly under surveillance, with listening devices as well as cameras, so
broaching the subject here would get them both arrested for treason before an
hour had passed.

The men remained
silent until they had exited the building. Mikhail could feel Aleksander’s
discomfort. It was rolling off him in waves. As they strolled through flower
gardens just beginning to bloom in the dank Moscow climate, the secretary spoke
in a near-whisper to avoid detection by ubiquitous KGB listening devices. “You
are being entrusted with a great honor,” he began. “A patriotic duty. You are
being given the opportunity to perform a service to your country far beyond any
you may previously have imagined possible.”

Aleksander
remained silent and Mikhail removed an innocent-looking envelope from his suit
coat. He held it up for Aleksander’s inspection, but kept it close to his body,
hoping to conceal it as much as possible from view of surveillance cameras.
“You are to leave immediately—we will provide you with a change of clothes for
your overnight stay in the GDR. You will be driven straight to Tushino Airfield
and fly via private plane to Berlin, where you will pass this envelope along to
an operative at the location specified in your paperwork. Please note the
envelope has been sealed in wax with my personal insignia, and its contents are
classified Top Secret, not for your eyes or anyone else’s except its intended
recipient. The consequences of opening it would be severe and immediate. Do you
understand, comrade?”

Aleksander nodded
slowly. Mikhail could see that he understood. Severe consequences in Russia
meant only one thing.

“How will I
recognize the envelope’s recipient?” Aleksander asked.

“I am told he
suffered facial disfigurement in an automobile accident years ago. A long scar
on his right cheek. But you needn’t worry, I have passed your description along
and your contact will be watching for you. He will address you as ‘Dolph’ and
you will respond, ‘Hello, Henrik.’”

The secretary
continued. “After delivering the envelope to your contact, your mission will be
complete. You may enjoy the rest of your evening in East Berlin and then fly
home tomorrow. Simple, yes?”

Mikhail knew
Aleksander wanted to question him. Hell, he could see the man wanted to refuse
the assignment. But he also knew he would do as asked. His place was not to
question. He was a bureaucrat and had been given an assignment by the most
powerful man in the USSR. What else could he do?

Aleksander reached
out reluctantly and took the envelope. “Remember,” Mikhail said. “No one is to
open this letter.”

“What if…”
Aleksander’s voice trailed off.

“What?” Mikhail
asked, annoyed. The lack of sleep was catching up to him and he still had a
long day ahead.

“Well, what if I
am challenged, you know, by the authorities?”

Mikhail reached
into his pocket and removed a pen and a small pad of paper. He jotted something
down and handed it to Aleksander. “The authorities would have no reason to
challenge you, but if you encounter any difficulties, this is my personal
telephone number. Anyone wishing to question you can call me, any time, day or
night, and I will be happy to explain the situation.”

It was clear to
Mikhail that Aleksander was not pleased, but that did not matter. He placed the
envelope in the interior breast pocket of his suit coat and the men began
walking toward the building. Mikhail knew he had just passed the point of no
return. He hoped Aleksander Petrovka was up to the challenge.

***

The Kremlin, Moscow

KGB monitoring station

May 29, 1987, 10:30 a.m.

Viktor Kovalenko squinted, his eyes
glued to a tiny black-and-white monitor. The screen was crammed into a metal
rack mounted on the wall next to his desk, alongside eleven similar monitors,
each transmitting a different view of the exterior of the Kremlin.

The image was small,
but he could see enough to know something unusual was happening. General
Secretary Gorbachev was speaking with one of his assistants, something he did
regularly throughout the day. But normally the men would be surrounded by aides
and secretaries and assorted party apparatchiks. This meeting was being
conducted one-on-one, almost an unheard-of scenario with a low-level bureaucrat
like Aleksander Petrovka.

The men were
engrossed in an intense conversation, Gorbachev doing most of the talking,
Petrovka’s body language suggesting he would rather be almost anywhere else in
the world. Gorbachev removed something from his pocket and after stressing a
point, finger waggling, handed the object to Petrovka.

Kovalenko glanced
at his watch and jotted the time down on a small pad of paper, along with a
notation regarding Gorbachev’s odd behavior. He squinted, watching the small
Russian-made Ekran television monitor closely as he lit a cigarette and took a
deep drag. Tried to determine the relative importance of what he was seeing.
Decided to play it safe. He picked up a telephone handset and dialed a number
from memory.

The call was
answered on the first ring, as Kovalenko knew it would be. It always was. He
laid out the details on the phone for the KGB watch commander: The virtually
unprecedented change to General Secretary Gorbachev’s routine. The seeming
reluctance with which Aleksander Petrovka received what Gorbachev had to say.
The secretive passing of an object, perhaps an envelope, between the two men.

Despite his
familiarity with Gorbachev—he had been assigned to this post for over three
years—Kovalenko could not guess what the General Secretary might be up to.
Something was definitely amiss, though.

Colonel Kopalev
listened without comment for five minutes or more as Kovalenko reported his
observations. Finally, when Kovalenko had finished, the colonel said, “Continue
observing Secretary Gorbachev. When he leaves his office for the day, I want it
thoroughly but discreetly searched. Have your men look for anything unusual and
then report back to me with your findings.”

Kovalenko
grimaced. “Colonel, the object was passed to Petrovka. I seriously doubt any
evidence will remain in Secretary Gorbachev’s office by the end of the day.
There’s probably none in there now. If I may suggest following Petrovka—”

“Thank you for
your assessment, Major. Of course we will follow Comrade Petrovka. But it
changes nothing as far as you are concerned. You have your orders. I will
expect to hear from you immediately if your search turns up any useable
information.”

“Yes sir,”
Kovalenko replied, and the connection was abruptly broken at the other end. His
boss had just slammed down the receiver. He replaced the handset in its cradle
and lifted his middle finger at it, fully aware that
he
might be under
surveillance as well, that his insolence was probably being observed, but was
annoyed enough not to care.

He lit another
cigarette and resumed observing the activity in and around the Kremlin.

4

Berlin, German Democratic
Republic

May 29, 1987, 10:20 p.m.

The vodka burned in a familiar and
not unpleasant way as it rolled down Aleksander Petrovka’s throat. He gulped
down his first glass in a matter of seconds and realized he should have ordered
two at once from the heavy-set barmaid when she had made her first pass by his
table. He shrugged. She would return soon. Any good barmaid could recognize the
heaviest drinkers in a crowd instantly. Her livelihood depended upon it.

Aleksander knew it
was critical that he keep his head clear and his wits about him during the
upcoming rendezvous. This was only his second trip into the GDR, and every face
appeared hostile, suspicious of the Russian interloper. But the prospect of
getting through the next hour—indeed, the rest of his life—without the fuzzy
reassurance provided by a liberal dose of vodka was unthinkable. The enormity
of this mission was not lost on Aleksander, nor was its potential to destroy
his life, and for the thousandth time since yesterday afternoon he questioned
his commitment to General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev.

Nobody defied the
KGB and got away with it.

And Aleksander
knew that by carrying out the instructions Gorbachev had given him, he was
defying the KGB. There was simply no other way to look at it. The very
circumstances of their meeting this morning were enough to convince him of that
fact.

No office.

No aides.

Just him and the
most powerful man in the Soviet Union.

Aleksander forced
his thoughts back to the present and the raucous East German club. He
maintained a continuous watch on the crowded discotheque, eyes darting,
searching for potential threats. The notion that the Undersecretary for Domestic
Affairs, the very definition of an anonymous apparatchik, would recognize a
threat even if it stood before him and announced itself, was laughable.
Aleksander knew this, yet he could not stop himself.

In his obsessive
concern for security, Aleksander almost missed the blocky figure of the barmaid
approaching his table. She asked him a question, which was lost in the din of the
club and the uncertainty of a foreign language, and Aleksander nodded, handing
her his empty glass. He assumed she must have asked if he wanted another drink,
which he most certainly did. What else could it be?

The barmaid took
his glass and clomped away. Standing directly behind her, completely hidden by
her bulk until she stepped around him, was a smallish, unassuming-looking man,
dressed casually, with a receding head of buzz-cut sandy hair and a pale face
dominated by black horn-rimmed glasses. And a jagged scar running diagonally
down his right cheek. In his hand he clutched a glass of clear liquid,
presumably vodka.

The man nodded at
Aleksander, then sat across the small table without waiting to be invited. “It
has been a long time, Dolph,” he said with a tight-lipped smile.

Aleksander stared
at the man, nerves tightening. He was supposed to respond. Call the man by a
code name. What was it? He had been rehearsing it a moment ago and now it was
gone.

The man’s eyes
narrowed at him and sweat broke out on Aleksander’s forehead. He felt as though
he might suffer a heart attack. Then he remembered. “Henrik!” he burst out. “It
is wonderful to see you, Henrik.”

The stranger
relaxed and leaned across the table, waiting to speak until Aleksander had
leaned forward as well, then said softly, “Do you have the item?” His Russian
was flawless.

The barmaid
returned with his drink and Aleksander remained quiet while she dropped the
glass onto the table, vodka slopping over the side. As her hefty form plowed
back through the crowd toward the bar—Aleksander could not help picturing a
gigantic Tupolev airplane steaming down the runway for takeoff—he turned his
attention back to his new friend. The man sat drumming his fingers.

Aleksander nodded.
“Da. I have it.”

He reached into
his breast pocket for the envelope before realizing how conspicuous it would
look for him to withdraw the item here in the tavern and pass it across the
table to his contact. Although no one seemed to be paying attention to them,
Aleksander knew
someone
would remember once the KGB started questioning
people. The KGB could be very persuasive.

Suddenly
terrified, Aleksander froze, hand on the envelope sticking out of his pocket.
What should he do? How could he avoid becoming the object of everyone’s attention
and still complete the mission Mikhail Gorbachev had entrusted to him? The
Soviet leader was not someone to be trifled with. In his own way he was as
imposing and intimidating as the faceless killers of the KGB. One didn’t rise
to the position of General Secretary of the Communist Party without possessing
an iron will and a ruthless efficiency.