Red traitor, p.23
Red Traitor, page 23
“Propulsion!” the Captain called with unnecessary force. “Half speed ahead. Helm—course one one five.”
16
First Kremlin Polyclinic, Moscow
Sunday, 28 October 1962, 07:00 Moscow Time / 00:00 EDT
It was still dark when Vasin arrived at the Kremlin Polyclinic in time for the end of the night shift at seven in the morning. The entranceway was a giant ziggurat of purple marble, crowded with nurses either exhausted from their work or on their way to their Sunday morning shift, still groggy with sleep.
Vasin had spent the night in one of the soaring marble lobbies of the Hotel Ukraine, slumbering in an armchair in the corner of the hotel’s round-the-clock café. His respectable suit and expensive Yugoslavian briefcase had kept the security guards from bothering him. He’d asked a night-shift waitress to wake him at six with coffee and breakfast. All evening Vasin had struggled to remember the name of Morozov’s doctor and failed. Something Caucasian.
Flashing his ID card was, as usual, enough to get him into the Kremlin Polyclinic without questions being asked. He took the elevator to the third floor and paced the near-deserted corridors of the Cardiology Department in search of a nameplate that jogged his memory. He found it without difficulty: musayev, rassoul ibragimovich. The doctor’s study was locked, but behind the door of an empty nurses’ common room he found a white doctor’s coat that fitted him. Vasin waited until the new shift of orderlies and nurses who huddled around the staff nurse’s desk dispersed before approaching the matron. Another flick of the scarlet KGB card was enough to secure him a free examination room and a phone line.
All that was missing was Sofia herself. It was nearly half past seven, and a gray pall was lightening the drizzling sky. Vasin went down to wait for her in the shelter of the portico, where he could smoke. Sofia had been right, of course. There was no reason on earth that Morozov should trust him. And every reason for him to assume exactly what Sofia had—that this was an elaborate trap. What could he say to change the man’s mind? That Morozov could only save his skin by incriminating himself? Vasin knew full well that his idea sounded desperate and suicidal. Morozov’s every instinct—as an intelligence officer, as a spy, as a sane man—would recoil from it as from a red-hot stove.
* * *
—
Sofia walked alone down the empty street, her head bowed and her face gray in the pale morning light. She looked as though she had barely slept.
“You came. Thank God.”
Her eyes did not meet Vasin’s.
“I came. You didn’t give me much choice.”
“We have to hurry. We need to catch Morozov before he leaves the house.” Taking Sofia’s arm, Vasin pushed through the milling patients in the hallway.
They did not speak until they reached the examination room that Vasin had commandeered. Vasin picked up the phone and signaled to Sofia to sit.
“Listen carefully. You’re calling from Doctor Rassoul Ibragimovich Musayev’s office. Our friend came in two weeks ago and was given a medical all clear. But the doctor has reviewed his tests results and now needs to see him urgently. Today. Here. If our friend recognizes your voice, make it clear that the conversation is not private. Make sure that he comes here, at all costs, immediately. Do you understand?”
Without waiting for Sofia to agree, Vasin dialed for an outside line, then flicked the dial through the seven digits of Morozov’s home number. As the phone began to ring, he handed the receiver to Sofia.
With outspread fingers he pushed a piece of paper with the doctor’s name written on it toward Sofia.
“Hello? Is that Citizen Morozova? May I speak to Oleg Vladimirovich, please? This is the office of…” Sofia peered at the paper. “Doctor Musayev.”
There was a pause as Morozov’s wife went to summon her husband to the phone. Putting her hand over the receiver, Sofia began to speak, but Vasin hushed her with a finger to his lips and a shake of his head. Morozov came on the line.
“Hello. Oleg Vladimirovich? This is Doctor Musayev’s office calling. Rassoul Ibragimovich has reviewed your test results from two weeks ago. He would like you to come back in and see him…Yes, yes, I know you saw him earlier this month. But there is a matter he would like to discuss with you urgently. Today. This morning…Yes, Comrade, I am aware that it’s Sunday.”
Vasin moved to crouch beside Sofia, half turning the receiver to his own ear so that they could both hear what Morozov was saying.
“This is very concerning. Rassoul Ibragimovich personally assured me that there was nothing to worry about.”
Sofia swallowed. Her voice was becoming hoarse.
“Nonetheless. The doctor is free for the next hour if you could come and see him before he begins his usual rounds.”
There was a long pause.
“Sofia? Is that you?”
Vasin shook his head with theatrical emphasis, mouthing “no.”
“No…no, Oleg Vladimirovich. You have mistaken me for somebody else…”
Vasin jabbed at his watch and pointed urgently to the floor.
“But Doctor Musayev is waiting for you. As soon as possible, at his consulting room. Thank you. Goodbye.”
Vasin reached over from his crouching position and pressed his finger down on the phone’s cradle. His eyes met Sofia’s, each with their own sense of shock and apprehension.
17
First Kremlin Polyclinic, Moscow
Sunday, 28 October 1962, 08:12 Moscow Time / 01:12 EDT
Vasin spotted Morozov first, bustling out of the elevator and heading for the head nurse’s station. He sprang from his vantage point by the stairwell and fell into step with the older man. It was strange, having spent so many months tracking Morozov’s every sound and movement, to suddenly be so close to his prey. Morozov was half a head shorter than Vasin, balding and running to fat. He smelled strongly of Troinoi eau de cologne.
“Oleg Vladimirovich? A moment of your time, please.”
Morozov’s eyes filled with instant fear, and he physically recoiled from the hand that Vasin tried to slip under his elbow.
“Who are you? State Security?”
“We are your friends. Silence, please. Sofia is here.”
Vasin prayed that Morozov would obey him as they passed the nurses’ station, followed by the curious eyes of the matron and her assistant. There was a good chance that both would recognize their patient Morozov, but it was a risk that Vasin had to take. He steered the Colonel firmly down the corridor and into the room where Sofia waited. Morozov peered left and right, glared at Sofia, and instinctively retreated to the furthest corner of the small room as Vasin closed and locked the door behind him.
“Where is Rassoul Ibragimovich?” Morozov’s voice, naturally high, had become even more reedy with alarm.
“Rassoul Ibragimovich has no news for you. But I do. Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Vasin, Special Cases Department of the Committee for State Security. For eleven months I have been watching you, because the kontora suspects that you are a spy for the Americans. I know you are a spy. But right here and now I want to save your life.”
Vasin had spent half the previous night rehearsing the speech. He had intended it to be crisp and to the point, but as the words left his mouth, he realized that his directness might be too brutal.
Morozov’s face creased in fear and his complexion went purple, as though he were choking. Thank God we’re in a cardiac ward, thought Vasin fleetingly.
“Whatever this young woman has told you, ignore it.” Morozov gestured extravagantly to Sofia, whose eyes widened in surprise. “She is a hysteric. A fantasist. She is motivated by personal jealousy and is ready to say anything to damage me. Your suggestion is outrageous nonsense. I need to speak to my superiors immediately. This is entirely irregular!”
The last word was pronounced on a rising note, as though it were a terrible insult. Retreating half a step further back to the windowsill, Morozov repeated himself, with more emphasis.
“Entirely irregular!”
“Colonel. Calm yourself and listen. You are right, this is irregular. Entirely. Think about it. If the kontora wanted your hide, they would have hauled you into the Lubyanka. You’d be standing in a cold, solitary cell without suspenders or tie, with a soldier looking in the peephole every five minutes. Believe me, I know how it’s done.”
Damn. Vasin had meant to reassure the man, win his trust—and here he was threatening him with the Lubyanka cellars. He paused for a moment to regain control over himself.
“Oleg Vladimirovich. I am here entirely on my own account. Nobody knows I have come. Though the kontora does know that you are at the doctor’s, since we have been listening to your phones. Sofia is here because I asked her to help. And before you denounce her any more, you should know that she agreed to cooperate in order to save your life.”
Morozov threw a helpless look at Sofia but she had turned away, her hand to her face.
“What the hell are you—”
“Don’t speak. Listen. Oleg Vladimirovich, I need you to get a message to the Americans. Urgently. Today.” Morozov began to protest, but Vasin raised his voice and spoke over him. “I take your denials as read. You don’t know what I am talking about. Fine. But nonetheless. On the second of this month, a flotilla of four submarines left the headquarters of the Northern Fleet at Polyarniy, bound for Cuba…”
As Vasin told the story, Morozov became entirely silent. It seemed to Vasin that the man was trying to escape inside himself, making his face utterly blank and staring resolutely at the floor. Only the knuckles of his hands, clutching the desk in front of him, betrayed the tension inside the man.
“So you see, Colonel Morozov, I have no choice. We cannot communicate with our own submarines. We cannot rescind the orders they have been given. And we know that the Americans have located our boats, and it is only a matter of time before they catch them. Which leaves us only one choice. To tell the Yankees. Warn them against trying to engage this flotilla. But we have to do it now. You have to do it now.”
After a long pause, Morozov’s voice came in a flat monotone, as though he were reciting from a text.
“Colonel, I have heard your insane story out because when I tried to speak you shouted me down.” Morozov’s eyes remained fixed on his own clenched hands, refusing to meet Vasin’s. “But I must protest, in the strongest terms, that I know nothing, absolutely nothing.”
“For Christ’s sake, man.” Vasin slammed the palms of both of his hands hard on the table. “I don’t care what you did. I don’t care if you betrayed our country’s secrets, or why. But you must do this. Now. For your Motherland. And for America, if you care for America, too. We’re talking about imminent nuclear war.” With each of his last words, Vasin again slammed the table. He felt anger swelling in his brain like a spreading bruise but was unable to control it.
“Quiet.” Sofia had stood, and put a calming hand on Vasin’s shoulder. “Colonel Vasin, can you leave us alone for a moment?”
Vasin glanced at the telephone, at the window, at the intercom that stood on the examination room desk, and shook his head. But he did retreat three steps to the far corner of the room.
“Fine. Have it your way.” Sofia crouched beside Morozov and took his hand. She spoke softly, as though to a stubborn child. “Oleg. I have no idea if what they say about you is true. And if it is, I cannot imagine why you did such a thing. It doesn’t concern me. I admired you. You know that. Part of me always will. But Oleg, if you can help. If you can do this thing for Vasin, then you can live. Don’t you see? The Chekist hasn’t got to that part yet. The threats. But he will, I am sure.” Sofia shot a hostile look across the room at Vasin. “Help him, and we can be free. The new life you said we could have together? The things we talked about doing, when you left your wife? Maybe not the foreign travel, the trade delegations that you promised me. Your life will be different, I understand. But I don’t care about that. We can still be together.”
Morozov’s mouth had become slack, his eyes resolutely fixed on the table lamp, avoiding Sofia’s. There was a long silence after she finished speaking. Morozov had folded his arms across his body. When he spoke, his words were precise and clipped.
“You’re devilishly clever, Colonel. Trained her well. Coached her perfectly. The good angel to your evil one. Very neat.”
Sofia recoiled from Morozov, withdrawing her hand and straightening her back. Her face hardened.
“Know this, Colonel Vasin,” continued Morozov. “I admit nothing and never will, because what you say is not true. I will never walk into your trap, because I am not the fool you take me to be. I will not succumb to the blandishments and the lies of this woman—”
“Stop talking.” Vasin’s voice cut across Morozov’s, an aggressive whisper. “I’ll do it myself. Me. Do you hear? I will deliver the message myself to the Americans. Just tell me where. Give me the code. Or the camera. Or whatever it is you use.”
Morozov gave a theatrical shiver, as though trying to shake off the words he was hearing. Vasin loomed over him now, his hands on the arms of the chair in which the traitor sat, his face just inches from Morozov’s.
“I need you to write the message, telling them what I have told you just now. Write it without any warning words. Make sure they know this is coming from you. I’m guessing you use a camera to photograph your messages. Maybe a miniature camera. Whatever it is, you photograph the document and give the film to her. And I assume you use dead-letter drops, not brush-pasts. We’ve never seen you within a hundred meters of a foreigner all year. So let’s say it’s a dead-letter drop. You give Sofia the message, destroy whatever else you need to destroy. The camera. A codebook. Whatever evidence you need to get rid of.”
Morozov was starting to twist away from the onslaught, but Vasin caught the man’s chin and forcibly turned his head back to face his own.
“Make whatever signal you need to to tell them you’re making an emergency drop. I don’t need to know what the signal is. Wrong number phone call. Curtain code. Whatever. And you tell me where the dead-letter drop is. Plus you tell me the signals you use to flag it. Do you understand?”
Morozov’s eyelids fluttered and his breathing grew labored. He shot a desperate glance toward Sofia, who refused to meet his eyes.
“In return, I go back to my routine surveillance work, which will be useless because you will never contact the Americans again. If and when the kontora decides to haul you in, I say we found and saw nothing in a year of listening to your snores. That’s the deal.”
Still Morozov said nothing. He drew his hand slowly down his gray face, and finally answered in a low whisper.
“You write it.”
“What?”
“You write me a draft, Vasin. Of what you want me to say. In your own writing. You sign and date it. Then…I will see.”
Vasin straightened and narrowed his eyes. Cunning son of a bitch. If Morozov was caught, he’d have a draft of the message in Vasin’s own writing to prove he’d written it at Vasin’s request.
“An insurance policy.”
Morozov merely raised his palms and eyebrows slightly in acknowledgment. His face registered only wariness. Vasin looked out the window at the lowering October skies, but saw nothing that could help him. Sofia was perched on the corner of a table, folded into herself, refusing to look at either of them. Christ, thought Vasin. This is like a bad Gorky melodrama.
“God damn you, Morozov.”
Vasin pulled out the desk drawer and rummaged through a pile of prescription forms and lab test requests. Giving up on finding a sheet of blank paper, he used the back of a form. Vasin snatched a framed medical certificate off the wall and placed the paper on it so as not to leave an impression on other papers on the desk. Force of habit. Vasin saw Morozov notice, and their eyes met for a split second of professional complicity. Vasin began to write.
“Flash—urgent. Four Project 641 diesel-electric submarines from the Soviet Northern Fleet have been ordered to run the blockade of Cuba. Each boat is armed with a nuclear torpedo and every commander has been given orders to use it if attacked without further approval from Fleet Command…”
When he had finished the draft, Vasin glanced up at Morozov once more. The man held him with a steady gaze, impassive but now no longer wearing a mask of feigned indignation. Vasin dared to hope that his desperation had finally convinced the traitor to cooperate. Morozov raised an eyebrow, tapping the unsigned note on the glass. Fuck you, thought Vasin. Fuck you so much.
Vasin signed and dated the paper as he’d promised, and handed it over.
“Right. We don’t have much time, Oleg Vladimirovich. You need to tell me exactly when and how.”
Morozov stood, tucking Vasin’s note into his inner tunic pocket. He said nothing but put out his hand, which Vasin reflexively took. Morozov clenched it hard, evidently fighting for control of his emotions, risking only a brief glance into Vasin’s face. Then he turned and spoke to Sofia.
“Sonyechka. Let’s go to my home. I will give you everything your boss needs.”
Morozov left first. As Sofia followed, Vasin caught her arm.
“Mayakovskaya metro. I’ll be waiting by the concert hall. Hurry.”
Sofia nodded quickly and followed Morozov out of the consulting room. Vasin watched them walk down the corridor, side by side but silent. Vasin could barely bring himself to think about what he had to do next. Morozov had walked away from the meeting with Vasin’s self-written death sentence in his pocket.
* * *
—
Morozov and Sofia rode the empty elevator down in silence. It was only when they reached the street that she stopped and turned to confront Morozov.
