The Kremlin Letter (19 page)

Three weeks from her first visit had passed before she told Rone, “I think I am in love.”

At eight
A
.
M
. one morning Rone was ordered to appear at the dispensary. The Priest injected his left arm with Novocain. While they waited for the numbness to set, Professor Buley took Rone's other arm and gave him his first series of inoculation shots. When he finished they strapped Rone to the operating table and burned off his vaccination. The Priest seized his left wrist, put a forceps to the thumbnail and pulled it off. Without further explanation they bandaged him.

All regular training ceased. At noon Rone had his first session with the Ditto Machine. Photographs and fingerprints were taken. A Soviet birth certificate, work papers and travel papers were given to him. He was also issued one hundred and ten Russian rubles and sixty-five kopeks.

Late that night Rone was assigned a house-cleaning detail. He, Ward and Janis rolled the unconscious bodies of Potkin's wife and daughters up from their basement rooms and placed each of them in a softly upholstered wooden box marked: Tillinger Fund—Arkansas exhibit.

When Rone returned to his room he found a new set of clothing laid out. They were much brighter and newer than his others. Buley entered and explained that these were his Sunday clothes, the clothes he would be traveling in. Buley also gave him photographs of his Georgia mother and father and the latest photographs and maps of Tiflis. He must study the changes.

The next morning Rone returned to the dispensary for additional inoculations. He was also fitted for a plastic thumbnail. His hand was still too tender to put it in place, but he was allowed to see it. It was filled with poison. If he was captured all he would have to do was bite through the nail and suck the liquid into his mouth. Death would be almost instantaneous.

At supper that night Ward announced that the final selections of those “going across” would soon be made; until then they all were restricted to their rooms unless ordered elsewhere. Rone saw B.A. pale and look over at him.

For the next three days Rone had his meals in his room and left only for afternoon sessions with Sweet Alice. Every detail concerning Polakov and the letter was reviewed.

Even though his briefings continued and even though he had his “whoopie thumb,” as the others called it, Rone was not convinced he would be chosen for the trip. He had long since realized that the Highwayman's methods were unpredictable. Seven weeks ago he had been fed up with the operation and wanted out. Now it was different. He wanted to go into Russia. He wanted to go very badly.

It was late in the evening when Ward came to his room.

“There is something you should know about,” he told Rone. “We have decided to get Kosnov out of Moscow for a time.”

“Before the men arrive?”

“At about the same time.” He threw an envelope on the bed. “Here's the list of those who are going.” Before Rone could reach for it he said, “Don't worry, you're third in command. In fact, you may damn well end up number two. We may lose a man on the way in.”

Rone was relieved. Then he weighed Ward's words. “The Highwayman?” he asked.

“Could be.” Ward handed him a folder. “Inside is a floor plan of the Potkin apartment in Moscow. Study it and make the room assignments. Also, figure out a communications set-up. Each of the agents will be making reports. I don't want them to know who is receiving the information.”

“What about telephones?” asked Rone.

“Not enough public phones in Moscow. I want something that will work at the apartment itself.”

“Without them knowing who receives the, information?”

“Yep.” Ward was sitting on the edge of the bed with one leg thrown over the other. As he talked he seemed to relax. “If I don't make it then you run the show however you want.”

“I don't know enough about the case,” Rone protested.

“You know almost as much as I do. If I don't make it an agent stationed in Prague will contact you.”

“Why don't you give me the additional information now?” asked Rone.

“I'm not dead yet,” Ward snapped.

“Is the girl going?” Rone asked.

“Why?”

“Well, she seems a little nervous.”

“Is that all?”

“And inexperienced.”

“So are you.”

“I just meant—”

“Look, Nephew, just because you've been shacking up with her on the side don't give you any rights. We pick who we need for what we need. You should have thought about this before you brought her here in the first place.”

Rone could think of nothing to say except, “When will I be leaving?”

“That all depends on a snowstorm in Siberia.”

Ward left. Rone opened the letter and read the typewritten list:

Highwayman

Ward

Virgin

Whore

Warlock

Erector Set

SECTION THREE

20

Embarkation

The following morning the entire group was called together for breakfast. When they finished eating Ward announced that the selection would be revealed in the next twenty-four hours. Sweet Alice talked next.

“It must be made clear to all of you, those selected and those remaining behind, that you are in the employ of an independent agency. You have no contact with any country. We have trained in the United States because your organizers had facilities here. It could just as well have been a dozen other countries. You are on your own. If you run into trouble when you're across do not look for help from any Western embassies. Do not go near them. That is part of the agreement.”

After the meeting Rone was told to go the basement conference room. Uncle Morris was waiting. Sweet Alice and Ward soon joined them.

“I would like to continue the Polakov story,” Uncle Morris began. “While he was in Moscow delivering the letter either the White House or Ten Downing Street heard what was happening. One certainly contacted the other when they knew. Both were enraged and ordered the responsible intelligence agency to stop Polakov and get the letter back.

“It was almost two weeks before he could be contacted. He was told to get the letter back. When he objected he was threatened. A week later he returned to England and said that his contact would agree to sell back the letter for one million dollars.”

“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.”