Red traitor, p.10
Red Traitor, page 10
The Admiral put a consoling hand on Arkhipov’s shoulder.
“Some time at sea will do you good, Comrade. In the company of solid, simple lads. Put your mind straight. Remember what they used to teach us, back at the Academy? ‘There’s nothing in the world more concrete than a warship’? Everyone and everything in its place. I always liked that idea. Being part of a beautifully efficient machine. Davai. Let’s drink. To the Motherland. To the Service.”
Leontyev sloshed some vodka into their glasses. He linked his arm through Arkhipov’s and they drank together. Arkhipov found his vision cloudy with tears.
“And you have a new mission, Captain. A whole flotilla, commanded by these good men here. And in good, old-fashioned diesel boats.”
Simultaneously, they knocked back the vodka. As Savitsky drained his glass, he watched his tearful new flotilla commander through narrowed eyes.
“Comrades!” The Admiral had clearly had too much to drink, and his voice was growing hoarse and reedy. “We must thank Captain Arkhipov for his frankness. And be glad that thanks to the actions of all the officers of K-19 we have all been able to learn hard lessons. Valuable lessons, which mean that such a misfortune will never again occur in our glorious Soviet Navy. Never again!”
2
Bolshoi Theater, Moscow
13 August 1962
The sight of himself in the gold-framed mirror in the sumptuous lobby of the Bolshoi Theater brought Vasin to a halt. He could barely recognize himself. Too much greasy Lubyanka cafeteria food, too little sunlight and air. The bureaucrat’s pallor they called a Kremlin tan. A sag to his face he’d never noticed before, with dark rings under his eyes. Even in the warm golden light of the Bolshoi’s grand staircase, he looked haggard. Three bells rang in rapid succession, and the last stragglers hurried to take their seats.
From his place in the dress circle, Vasin scanned the audience, trying to catch a glimpse of Sofia before the house lights went down. He failed to spot her before the curtain rose, revealing a sumptuous set of medieval Russia, populated by brightly dressed extras. The swelling overture of Mussorgsky’s Boris Godunov filled the auditorium.
Vasin found his spy at the place he had appointed for their first clandestine meeting—on the landing above the ladies’ toilets. Sofia wore her everyday uniform and her usual dark scowl. Her hair was untidily pinned under her fore-and-aft cap. Refusing to dress up for him was apparently the only way she could think of to defy the system that had her clamped tight in its jaws.
“Good evening, Sofia Rafaelovna.”
She said nothing and nodded curtly. First things first—always set the next rendezvous before doing anything else. One of the pieces of basic tradecraft that he had tried to explain to his reluctant agent in her initial operational briefing.
“For our next meeting, I will again send you a ticket to the theater at your office in plain cover. If you cannot attend, make a call to my office number and ask for Valery Samuilovich. If it’s an emergency and you need to speak to me urgently, ask for Samuil Valeryevich. Like we talked about.”
She nodded perfunctorily.
“You have something for me, Sofia?”
Sofia glanced furtively left and right before answering in a stage whisper. She really made a terrible spy.
“How is he?” she hissed. “Have you heard anything?”
“He is who?”
The Spanish girl shot Vasin a look of pure hatred. Some dark, nasty part of him liked it. But her dislike was better than her usual contemptuous dismissal.
“My brother.”
“Vladimir is safe. From us at least. Your material?”
Sofia pouted, rummaged in her handbag, and slapped a crumpled packet of Yava cigarettes on the sill of the large mirror that filled the landing. Vasin felt for the small film canister that was inside.
“Nice to talk to you, Comrade,” Vasin called after her retreating back. As he followed her with his eyes as she mounted the stairs, Vasin noticed a man in a dark suit who was hovering on the next landing, also watching Sofia. There was something about his studied nonchalance that marked him as a watcher. Or was he just another middle-aged man with an eye for a shapely girl?
The suspicion that pervaded the corridors of the Lubyanka was infectious.
Vasin waited until the progression of intermission bells herded the last audience member back for the second act, leaving him alone in the theater lobby. Only then, sure that he was not being tailed, did he collect his coat and step into the rainy night.
* * *
—
It was just a short walk from the Bolshoi to the Lubyanka, past the soaring mosaic-covered facade of the Hotel Metropol and the bulk of the Children’s World department store. The giant, square mass of the KGB headquarters loomed in the drifting late-summer drizzle like an ocean liner, lights still burning in more than half the windows. Vasin took the elevator to his ninth-floor office, locked the door behind him, took out the cigarette packet, and slipped out the canister. He picked up the internal telephone to summon a messenger from the photographic department—which, along with the rest of the kontora, worked around the clock. There was no rest for the guardians of State Security.
3
KGB Headquarters, Moscow
14 August 1962
Orlov spent nearly ten minutes reading through the stack of photographic prints in silence as Vasin waited, standing, in front of his desk. Tucking his reading glasses into his tunic pocket, he showed no sign of alarm or surprise.
“So, Vasin?”
“It’s a briefing paper for the Cuban delegation, sir. Prepared for Comrade Raúl Castro’s visit last month.”
“So I read.”
“It says…we have asked Castro for permission to deploy intermediate-range nuclear missiles to Cuba, sir. Covertly. We have already sent specialists to prepare the launch sites. Our leadership has been in talks with the Cubans to obtain their permission for this démarche since May.”
“I read that, too. Fascinating. And?”
Vasin could not read his boss’s expression—except to know that he was playing another of his infuriating, blank-faced games. Your move, Vasin.
“And…Sofia Rafaelovna is waiting to hear from us whether she should pass this information to Colonel Morozov.”
“Indeed. And?”
“And if we allow her to pass it on, Morozov will undoubtedly attempt to give this sensational information to his American handlers.”
“I would agree. But?”
Vasin, standing like a schoolboy in front of a teacher, felt a flush of fury at Orlov’s teasing tone.
“But…sir…this is explosive. This is a covert operation of extreme strategic sensitivity. Can we just use it as bait to catch Morozov? What if he finds a secret way to communicate this to the Americans before we have caught him? If he just picks up a public phone and dials the Embassy? Then we will have let slip a secret of such value—”
“Can we?” interrupted Orlov. “My dear Sasha. Did you say, can we? We can do anything we choose, in the interests of our Motherland’s security.”
Vasin resisted the urge to retort, and held the silence between them. When Vasin finally spoke, he kept his voice dry.
“So you authorize the passing of this information to the traitor Morozov, General?”
“I do, Vasin. I do. The risk is justified. Just make sure that you catch him before he can pass it on. As he will surely attempt to.”
“Of course, sir.”
Vasin stared at a place beyond Orlov’s head but felt his boss’s eyes scanning him for signs of defiance. He emptied his face. Orlov nodded curtly and handed back the report.
4
Frunze Embankment, Moscow
14 August 1962
“So your girl is on the hook?” Tokarev eyed Vasin with a grudging respect. “That was quick. What’s it been—four weeks? And is she ready to nail your man yet?”
Vasin shifted in the driver’s seat to face his contact.
“Yes. Yes. None of your business and…not yet.”
Tokarev snorted.
“No need to get touchy. So I guess I’m over and out. I’ll take your thanks as read.”
“No. You’re not out, Tokarev. I need some more information first.”
“What information? And why?”
Vasin turned back to the steering wheel, staring ahead. Why, indeed? He had his orders from Orlov—instruct Sofia to pass on the secret report. So why was he here with Tokarev?
“About Cuba. Look.”
Vasin slipped a packet of photographs out of his briefcase and propped the first one on the dashboard for Tokarev to read.
“You’re just going to stare at it, Major?”
The old cavalryman grunted and leaned forward to read. The documents were on crested Defense Ministry notepaper. Every page was stamped top secret.
“Who’s this report for?”
“Our Cuban comrade Raúl Castro. This paper was prepared for him. Prior to discussions with our Politburo.”
Tokarev read on. At the end of every page he flicked his head, and Vasin set a new sheet down. When Tokarev was done, he leaned back on the flimsy car seat and tipped his head backward with a deep whistle.
“Thanks for that, Comrade. My curiosity satisfied. My head—on the block for reading classified material.”
“You’re welcome, Tokarev. But what does it really mean? What is this Cuban adventure about?”
“About?”
“I mean—why are we doing this? Proposing sending missiles to Cuba?”
Tokarev sighed.
“I guess you don’t know the worst-kept secret in the Soviet Union. Worst kept in military circles, anyway.”
“And what might that be? Everyone always has a secret I don’t know.”
The old cavalryman turned and glowered. Vasin, in a silent gesture, pointed with an index finger to the roof of the car. As in, the higher-ups need to know. Orlov needs to know.
“Spit it out, Tokarev.”
“We don’t have enough long-range missiles. The kind that can hit America. That’s the secret. Know how many long-range intercontinental ballistic missiles the glorious Soviet Army has in its arsenal? Take a guess.”
“No idea. Didn’t Khrushchev say we’re producing long-range missiles like sausages? Five hundred?”
“Close. Four. Not four hundred. Four. Just four.”
“Wait…” Vasin struggled to recall a conversation at the officers’ mess at Arzamas, many months before. “Didn’t I read somewhere that we could launch them from submarines these days? Did a test last year, no?”
Tokarev nodded in grudging acknowledgment.
“Correct. Yes. We do have subs that can fire nuclear missiles. But since the K-19 accident last summer, all our long-range nuclear subs have been confined to base while the nuts-and-bolts boys figure out how to prevent them from going up in smoke halfway across the Atlantic. Another badly kept secret. Anyway, the Project 658 class—the one K-19 belongs to—is the only one capable of firing missiles at sea. And they’re all in port. So the Motherland is down to four intercontinental strategic rockets. And our strategic nuclear bombers. But if we can shoot down one of the Yankees’ U-2s, then the Yankees can definitely shoot down a Tu-95 bomber.”
“U-2? You mean American spy planes?”
“Right, like the one we shot down over Sverdlovsk in ’sixty. The point is that nuclear bombers are obsolete. Easy to pick off as a fat goose. Especially those that can deliver really big bombs like the fifty-megaton one we popped off last October up on Novaya Zemlya. Nice big bang. But no realistic way to get that sucker over Washington. Our missile subs are grounded. The eggheads can’t get our strategic missiles to work. So…”
“So we’re actually defenseless?”
“We are unable to respond to an American nuclear attack, to be precise.”
“So why Cuba?”
“We have four long-range rockets—but hundreds of intermediate- and medium-range ones. Which means, to people hearing about this shit for the first time, a range of two to four thousand kilometers.”
Tokarev’s swipe was not meant kindly.
“We want the Cubans to agree to have the rockets on their island because that’s the only place we can hit America from.”
“Correct, Comrade Colonel. I see the makings of a strategic expert in you. We put our rockets there because we have to. Otherwise we are, as you put it, defenseless.”
“And what if the Americans find out?”
“About which part—the missile gap, or our little Cuban proposal?”
“Either.”
Tokarev shrugged, settled back in his seat, and shook his head in place of an answer. They sat side by side in silence for a long moment before Tokarev moved to open the door. He leaned back into the car for a final word. “I’ll tell you one thing for free, Vasin. Whatever the fuck this is all really about, Orlov is in over his head. And as for you…you’re so deep over your head that whale shit is going to look like Sputnik.”
He slammed the door in Vasin’s face.
5
Revolution Square Metro Station, Moscow
15 August 1962
“You really want me to give Morozov the report?”
Vasin and Sofia stood side by side in the wide vestibule in the center of the Revolution Square metro station. Rush hour crowds flowed around them in a steady stream. Like Orlov once said, sometimes the safest place to hide is in plain sight. There had been no time to organize another meeting at the Bolshoi, so Vasin had simply followed Sofia from the office.
“You heard me right.”
An arriving train spilled jostling passengers, forcing Vasin and Sofia into the lee of a larger than life-size bronze statue of a border guard with an Alsatian dog.
“I don’t understand. That report is confidential.”
Vasin had a sudden, mad urge to laugh at Sofia’s understatement. Confidential? Just a little. The press of passengers ebbed, and the train’s door closed with a violent clack. Sofia glanced around them and lowered her voice to a loud hiss.
“How does this track with your…theory? You say our friend is an enemy spy. Yet you want me to give him government secrets?”
A swelling crowd of passengers gathering for the next train began to press in around them once more. Vasin put his mouth close to Sofia’s ear.
“Trust me, Sofia. We know what we are doing.”
She shot Vasin a dubious glance.
“When?”
Vasin paused for a moment. He badly needed a few days more to work out the real reason why Orlov had approved handing the report to Morozov—in defiance of all caution and reason.
“Soon. Wait for my signal.”
“And news on Vladimir?”
“What kind of news are you expecting? That he’s changed his mind and decided to come home to the USSR?”
Sofia looked down at the ground, her lips pursed. Vasin realized he’d make a mistake with his ironic tone.
“Listen to me, Sofia. We can’t stop Vladimir from making his own mistakes. But know this. Your cooperation is keeping him as safe as the kontora can make him. I promise. We’re all in this together.”
Vasin knew, even as he spoke the words, that neither of them really believed that.
6
3rd Frunze Street, Moscow
16 August 1962
Vasin’s home phone rang on and on. On his makeshift bed on the living room couch, Vasin pulled a pillow over his head. It was Vera who eventually answered. She shook her husband awake.
“For you. Someone called Ekaterina Orlova.”
Vera kept her voice pointedly neutral. Only the bedroom door that slammed behind her as she returned to bed betrayed anything of what she was feeling. Vasin stumbled to the phone. It was well past one in the morning.
Katya’s familiar, husky voice was slurred with drink.
“I must see you, darling.”
“Now?”
Vasin struggled to keep the tension out of his voice. To be a late-night gigolo on call to the boss’s wife was more than he could bear.
“Now, darling. Right now. Come over to mine.”
* * *
—
The Orlovs’ apartment on Kutuzovsky Prospekt was indecently opulent. A row of tall windows faced onto the broad avenue to one side. Pompous portraits of Soviet and Russian military heroes lined the walls. Katya, swaying with booze, wore a frilly pink negligee. Her makeup was smeared across her face. Vasin saw that she had been crying.
“Don’t worry. He’s away. Out at someone’s dacha. Drink?”
Vasin shook his head. Katya did not insist, but sloshed cognac from a decanter into her own large glass.
“You wanted to see me?”
Vasin knew that he was failing to control his face. Orlov’s wife, her pendulous breasts swinging loose under the nylon of her slip and her hair in disarray, disgusted him.
“I can see that you hate me, Sasha. I would, if I were you.”
“I don’t hate you, Katya.”
So it was going to be one of those talks. At least she wouldn’t be demanding sex. She lurched toward him, grabbing Vasin’s lapel.
“Listen to me. We have to talk about something important. And no, it’s not about you and me. Or Orlov.”
“Katya. Everything’s always about Orlov, sooner or later.”
She smiled lopsidedly.
