A truck lumbered by on the street, its exhaust white in the extreme cold. No matter how much trouble Russia continued to have it wouldn't shrivel up and die, or disappear off the face of the earth. Germany and Japan were totally devastated by 1945. Now, a half-century
later, they were among the most powerful nations on earth. But they'd had help, and a lot of it. The question was, who would help the Russians? America or Japan?
Someone knocked at his door. “It's time to go.” It was Yemlin.
McGarvey let him in. “How'd you know I was awake?”
Yemlin shrugged. “You know.” He glanced up at the ceiling light fixture. The room was bugged. Possibly they'd even watched him with a hidden camera. It didn't matter.
“Where are we going?”
“To see the director, but from there we'll go directly to the airport, so bring your. suitcase.”
“This early?” McGarvey asked, putting on his tie.
“The Lubyanka is very open these days,” the Russian said, smiling wryly. “Western journalists are there practically every day, but not until 8:30 in the morning.”
“He should move his office.”
“No.” Yemlin shook his head. “Now please let's go, Kirk. General Polunin is waiting for us.”
The temperature had dropped to thirty-eight below zero. The cold took McGarvey's breath away. Inside General Polunin's limousine it was roaring hot. It was a wonder that everyone over here didn't get pneumonia every winter because of the huge contrasts between outside and inside temperatures. His father explained that Russians kept their homes warm simply because they could. The warmer the better. As a nation they remembered going cold and hungry many times during their history. It was the same reason a sign of prosperity among Russian men was a pot belly. It meant the man was wealthy enough and well-connected enough to buy the necessary calories.
“I'm sorry that you didn't sleep well, Mr. McGarvey,” the general said. The drive over to Dzerzhinsky Square was only a half-dozen blocks, and at this hour of the morning there was almost no traffic.
“The effects of jet lag,” McGarvey answered. “I'll sleep on the way home.”
“We'll make sure to get you out to the airport in plenty of time. In the meanwhile Mr. Karyagin is most interested in meeting you. He thinks, as I do, that your being here might kill two birds with one stone. That is, if you will cooperate.”
“I won't spy on my country,” McGarvey shot back.
“But you will have us spy on Japan for you.”
“Not spy, just share your product, general. You're already spying.”
“That's all we expect of you. For you to share your influence in Washington.”
“Is that what Mr. Karyagin is going to ask me?”
“I don't know. I'm not the director. But your request has been discussed at the highest levels.” General Polunin looked directly into McGarvey's eyes. “We take you very seriously, Mr. McGarvey. Please extend to us the same consideration.”
“Believe me, General, I do,” McGarvey said. “I wouldn't be here otherwise.”
The black statue of Feliks Dzerzhinsky, the founder of the Cheka, which was the forerunner of the KGB and the SUR, that had stood in the courtyard of the KGB's Lubyanka headquarters, was gone, torn down in 1991 when the Soviet Union had collapsed. Even its granite base was gone now.
Aleksandr Semenovich Karyagin was a short, well-groomed dapper man in his late fifties. His hair was gray, and he wore a Western-cut suit so that he looked more like an American politician than the head of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service.
“Good morning, Mr. McGarvey,” he said. “I thought you might want breakfast before you left for the airport.”
They met in the small ninth-floor dining room. An American-style breakfast of bacon and ham and sausages, eggs, toast, and fried potatoes was laid out. General Polunin came up with McGarvey, but Yemlin remained downstairs.
“Good morning, Mr. Karyagin. It's kind of you.”
Because of a heart murmur, Karyagin had not served
in the military. Instead he had thrown himself into politics, first in Leningrad and later in Moscow, doing whatever was asked of him without question or complaint. Unlike many of his counterparts, however, he was intelligent and inventive and soon came to the attention of Boris Yeltsin. They had risen together. The man was generally well liked and respected in the Western intelligence community because of his professionalism.
“I understand that you still maintain ties with the CIA.”
“I have a couple of friends who work for the Company. I don't see them very often, but now and then we get together for a couple of drinks. The breakfast looks good. I'm hungry.”
There were four small tables each with a crisp white tablecloth and silver service in the tastefully appointed room. They served themselves from a buffet along one wall and sat at one of the tables by a large window that looked out across the city.
“When you get back to Washington ask your friends for some information,” Karyagin said.
“I told General Polunin that I will not spy on my country for you,” McGarvey said.
“I'm not asking you to become a traitor, merely to ask for some help.”
“With what?”
“How will the United States react when the public finally learns what happened in the Tatar Strait?”
“We'll probably read about it in the
New York Times
or
Washington Post
in the next few days,” McGarvey said. “But frankly I don't think the average American will give a damn. You've been our enemy since 1945, and there's no love just now for the Japanese. So I imagine that most Americans will view that attack as nothing more than a minor squabble.”
“But Japan has vast economic ties with the United States.”
Well put, McGarvey thought, though stranglehold might have been a more accurate choice of words. “It doesn't matter.”
“By reaction, I meant the White House's reaction. How will your President respond?”
“I don't know, Mr. Karyagin,” McGarvey said. “And even if I still worked for the CIA, I wouldn't know that. Only a few of the President's closest advisers would be privy to such information. And if I could get to them, which I cannot, I wouldn't do it.”
“The crux of the matter is what would your country do if we retaliated in some way for the attack against us in our home waters?”
“Is that what you're planning to do?”
“It's a distinct possibility, Mr. McGarvey.”
“As you say, Japan has vast economic ties with my country. They are our allies.”
Karyagin stared at McGarvey without altering his expression, yet it was clear that the comment had hit home. The Russians were in a dicey situation. If they did something overtly to disturb the Americans, what aid and support they were getting from Washington and from companies like Guerin would dry up. On the other hand, if they let the Japanese incursion into waters they claimed were Russian go unchallenged, and the destruction of their naval vessel go unrevenged, it would happen again and again until their eastern border was no longer secure. The situation was intolerable.
“If Cuba attacked and sank one of your Navy or Coast Guard ships off the Florida coast, the White House would react.”
“It most certainly would,” McGarvey said. “But if it had happened ten years ago when Cuba was still your ally, would you have risked war to help them out?”
“I don't know.”
“Neither do I, Mr. Karyagin. But I do know that we have satellites keeping a close watch on what's going on. Whatever you do we'll know about it. But how my President will react I cannot predict. In fact, your people probably have a better reading on it than I do. Yemlin runs Washington with a sharp eye.”
“General Murphy is very close to the President.”
McGarvey allowed himself to smile. “As I said, I'm
not privy to the President's advisers, not even the general.”
“But you're concerned about the Japanese.”
“Wary. We think a
zaibatsu
may have been formed to ruin Guerin Airplane Company.”
“In order to acquire the technological developments that the company has made on this new airliner?”
“That's right. My government refuses to help us because it would show favoritism of one industry over another and would involve the government directly in industry.”
“Foolish of them,” Karyagin said. “We don't have such constraints.”
Or a lot of other things, the thought occurred to McGarvey. “We believe that this Japanese group will do anything to reach its goal.”
“Including murder?”
“Yes, including murder.”
Karyagin glanced at General Polunin, a bleak look suddenly in his eyes. “We've heard nothing about this from our Tokyo operation?”
“That is correct, Mr. Director,” Polunin said.
Karyagin turned back to McGarvey. “What will happen to our deal if we don't find out what you need to know?”
“It would be a moot point in that case,” McGarvey said, “because Guerin would no longer be an American company.”
“By coming here and speaking with us, you could be construed as a traitor.”
“I represent a manufacturing company that wishes to make an offer to build a commercial aircraft assembly plant here, equip it, and train its personnel. Of course, before any such agreement could be finalized we would need the export licenses. But the legal people say that will present no serious problem. Will you help us?”
“Yes, of course we will,” Karyagin said, as if there'd never been a doubt in anyone's mind. “But you too must understand that if the situation between us and the
Japanese government deteriorates, working with your company could become a moot point for us.”
“I understand.”
Â
It had taken nearly forty-eight hours before Bruno Mueller was finally out of Europe. The automobile he had stolen from the Munich Airport had been returned in the morning by one of the general's staff, who that night drove Mueller across the border into Austria.
In Vienna, Mueller was handed over to another associate of the general, who'd driven him to Budapest, where the next afternoon, with new papers identifying him as Karl Steiner, a businessman from Stuttgart, he was able to board a Czechoslovak Airlines 747 direct to Washington's Dulles International Airport.
Customs and immigration passed him through after only a couple of very routine questions, and the Yellow cab with the roof number 659 was waiting for him as he'd been instructed. By midnight he was knocking at the door of a very large and very old farmhouse a few kilometers west of the airport, the cab's taillights disappearing in the darkness down the long driveway.
America, he thought. One week ago he would never have believed it possible. There was, however, no doubt in his mind that he was a fugitive, and that whatever opportunity the general had arranged for him was his last chance.
A bulky old man with a thick nose and white hair, wearing a moth-eaten sweater and brown corduroy trousers, answered the door. “You're Mueller?” he asked, the words slurred.
“That's right,” Mueller replied in English. “The General sent me.”
The old man let him in, then closed and locked the door. “Did you have any trouble getting here?”
Mueller shook his head. To the right the stair hall opened into a comfortably furnished living room. A fire was on the grate. To the left was a dining room, beyond which an open door led into the kitchen. A short
corridor led to the back of the house. The place smelled pleasantly of wood smoke and pipe tobacco.
“Your room is upstairs, first on the right. Put your things away, and then come back down. I want to talk to you before I leave.”
Mueller looked closer at the old man, especially his eyes, which were watery, and his complexion, which was mottled red. The man was a heavy drinker and was drunk now, or nearly drunk, he decided. Not so good, but the general never made mistakes.
“You're going away?”
“Into the city. My home is in Georgetown.”
“What about this place?” Mueller asked.
“I own this house as well, but very few people know about it. I use it from time to time for ⦠various things.”
Mueller cocked an ear to listen, but the only sounds in the house were the crackling of the fire on the grate. “Is there anyone else here?”
“Not yet,” the old man said. “But someone else will be coming to help you.”
“With what?” Mueller asked.
“In due time, Colonel.” The old man motioned toward the stairs. “Put your things away. I'll fix you a drink.”