Last Call for Blackford Oakes (33 page)

“Which does not answer the question, How is it that, with the Shumberg report in your files, you let Titov go to Vienna, where he sits now happily bent on bribing the Soviet government?”

He looked down at his file. “At least you picked up the woman and the boy in Leningrad, and I suppose I should congratulate you”—he looked down at his file, as if to read fine print—“for not actually killing the boy, though your agent evidently tried heroically to do so. Perhaps he is out of practice.

“Now. Which course of action should we take? My inclination is to confront ugly developments realistically. Accept the consequences of our own derelictions, send the woman and the boy to Vienna, and to hell with them.”

“Comrade Nikolai Vasilievich,” Bykov raised his hand. “This would be an act of capitulation of profound consequences. Word of it would spread through the entire cultural community: Defy the Soviet Union, and the government will take no effective steps of reprisal—”

Dean Rodzinsky interrupted. “The only act of reprisal, as you put it, Comrade Mikhail Pavlovich, that we could undertake is the detention and imprisonment or even, I suppose, the liquidation of the family. But what is the point in a reprisal if it does not further your objective? Keeping the family in detention is not going to bring Titov back, and is not likely to fortify the loyalty of other members of the research community.”

“What
would
be guaranteed if we kept them here,” the deputy foreign minister said, “is huge publicity, as word gets around not only in the Soviet Union, but all over the world, as Titov proceeded with his”—he picked up a sheet from the portfolio—“his catalogue of defamations. And unless we shot the woman and the boy, there would be no end to the hue and cry for their release—not tomorrow, not the next day. It would be another Sakharov case. And if we
do
shoot them, just consider! There'd be grounds for major anti-Soviet propaganda, infinite propaganda.

“Now”—Nikolai Paval, thirty years in the army, was experienced in calling people to order—“turn for a moment to other aspects of the suggested ‘covenant,' as Titov described his proposals. What about his files, Comrade Rodion Arkadievich? If we permitted Titov to recover his files, after we had copied them, would this cause damage?”

“No, Comrade Nikolai Vasilievich. Moreover, we could arrange for a very quick copyright, which would hold him to his promise to give us the proceeds, if ever there are any, of a commercialization of that research.”

“How quickly could all of this be done?”

Roman Belov was finally heard. “I could supervise it all very quickly, Comrade Nikolai Vasilievich. If I may suggest it, I think the entire business—getting the Titov woman and the son without publicity from their present quarters, bringing together the files, dispatching them all to Vienna—would be most efficiently done using one of our transports. Load the files into the plane here in Moscow, land in Leningrad, load the passengers, and on to Vienna.” He looked around the table. “And the transport could pick up Kirov and Martins and the two agents you sent there, Comrade Mikhail Pavlovich, for contingent purposes.”

“Yes.” The deputy foreign minister paused. “Yes. Let us put it together in that way. You attend to the details, Comrade Roman Ivanovich.”

Colonel Bykov turned full face to the deputy foreign minister, his pen in his right hand pointed consecutively at his three colleagues. “Comrade Nikolai Vasilievich, I formally request a ruling on this question from the general secretary.”

“Very well, Comrade Mikhail Pavlovich. It is now five minutes to twelve. If you”—he turned his head to Roman Belov—“have not heard from me to the contrary by 1215, you will proceed on my—on our—understanding.”

CHAPTER 64

Peter Jutzeler conferred closely with his superior about final arrangements. The foreign minister was anxious to expedite the—heartily welcome—closing of the Titov episode. It had been a great victory for the West, but the conciliatory terms would be met: There would be no publicity, none whatever. The press blackout had worked very well. It had been nine days since the twenty-four-hour alarm over the disappearance of the Russian scientist. But when the minister's office had sent out the word that all was well—that the “missing” scientist had simply been taking a tourist's sojourn in Vienna—the pressure had lifted, and there was no longer any journalistic curiosity on the matter. The press knew nothing about the drama in the bierhaus, not one word about it having leaked.

Jutzeler had done a good job, and would now preside over the ending of it.

It would be important for rudimentary reasons of tact and diplomacy—the minister agreed with Jutzeler—to separate into two distinct events the arrival of Frau Titov and her son, and the departure of the Soviet delegation.

Perusing the rosters brought together by Jutzeler, Minister Hauptmann was annoyed at seeing that the outgoing Soviet party would include two “Soviet agents”—whose presence in Vienna he had had no knowledge of. Obviously they were a part of the security detail sent in to conclude the Titov affair.

“Well, Jutzeler, it isn't as if we actually
controlled
the coming and going of agents, Soviet, American, Argentinian, Congolese. They have visas?—they get in. These two people leaving tomorrow on the Soviet plane were here to exert a strong arm if they thought it was needed. Either to protect the two Soviet delegates, Martins and Kirov, or to aggress against Titov. The fact is, they did not interfere. We certainly won't impede their departure. For the hell of it, check when, exactly, they got into Austria, in case I decide to make a scene.”

Jutzeler had responded immediately to the telephone call from Titov that morning, requesting that the U.S. delegates, Blackford Oakes and Gus Windels, be present at the airport. “They must have an opportunity to be there at the consummation of their important initiative,” Titov had said excitedly. “They will, with their own eyes, see my wife and son descend from the airplane. You will kindly expedite this?”

Yes, Jutzeler said, that was easy to do.

So, there would be three cars departing from Kärntner Ring 16 at 1315 and arriving at Schwechat Airport at 1350, ten minutes ahead of the scheduled landing of the Soviet transport plane. Jutzeler would ride in the first car with an aide and an Austrian policeman. In the second car, Dr. Titov would ride alongside—he had insisted—his old friend Valeria Mikhailov, who had stood by him during his turbulent stay in Vienna. In the third car, Oakes would be at the wheel. He had rented a car and knew the road well, he told Jutzeler's office. He explained that although Windels was expected as a member of the retinue and had clearance, he, Oakes, would in fact be alone in the car. “Mr. Windels has other urgent business to attend to. If he gets done with that, he can come to the airport in a cab.”

Jutzeler thought to give the disembarking detachment one half hour's lead. That would provide time for the family reunion, Titov with wife and son; for unloading the baggage, including the research files of Dr. Titov; and for refueling the plane.

At 1430, the Soviet detachment would arrive in two cars. Jutzeler had assumed that Martins and Kirov would drive in one car, the agents in the other. But Kirov said he would prefer to travel with one of the agents in one car, leaving the second for Martins and the other agent.

The cars would go directly to the Düsseldorf gate, reserved for charter and diplomatic flights. An official of the immigration service would be there to stamp the passports of the departing Soviet delegation. They would proceed up the stairs to the plane. Jutzeler and his aides would return to their car to drive back to the city, but departing only after the engines of the transport had been fired and the taxiing to the runway had begun.

As planned, Gus Windels arrived in the restaurant of the Imperial Hotel at eight. Blackford was seated in one of the booths, the candlelight illuminating the rich red velvet and the gilt sconces over each of the carved-wood booths.

Blackford was reading a paperback. In front of him, face down, was a menu displaying the imperial Habsburg seal, which a hundred years earlier had adorned the grand hotel as one more of the emperor's palaces.

“Let's have something to eat,” Blackford said routinely, after a slight throat-clearing. They looked down at their menus but were interrupted by the headwaiter. He brought in an ice bucket and a bottle of Moët et Chandon champagne. “Herr Oakes, this bottle was ordered to be served to you with this card.”

Blackford opened it and handed it over to Gus. “You handle this. It's in Russian.”

“It says”—Gus ran his eyes up and down. “It says: ‘In anticipation of my … reunion with … my wife, Nina, and son, I salute you and Mr. Windels and my new country.'” Gus looked over at Blackford. “That's it, Dad. That's what it says.”

“That's real nice.”

In German, the waiter asked, “Shall I open it, sir?”

“Danke, yes,” Blackford nodded.

Gus ordered pheasant and a bottle of burgundy wine. Blackford selected pariser schnitzel. Gus was lively, inflamed even, and talked on with great spirit, recalling one or another detail of the tumultuous six days. He didn't like to praise Blackford, guarding against any taint of sycophancy. That would have interfered with a professional relationship that had developed profoundly in their partnership of a year ago, when they had traveled about as father and son, and now during the weeks of their new mission in Moscow, followed by these days in Vienna. But the wine overcame his reserve, and he said, “Dad, that was some thing you pulled off. Calling the Soviets on a blackmail move and making them retreat! That's going to take twenty-five years of seminars by the Soviet High Command to digest.”

Blackford managed a smile, a grateful smile. He was only fiddling with his veal. Gus said, “Come on, Black, eat something. Do some justice to our two wines. Every now and then, in our trade, we have to live it up!” He raised his glass, Blackford his, though his eyes didn't match the movement of the glass. They remained level as the glass came to rest on the table. His eyes focused on Gus Windels's face.

“Gus, I've got things on my mind. I thought of not telling you about them, but I figure I've got to do it. Here's the first thing I want you to have.” He pulled out an unsealed envelope from his pocket. “Take your time. Read carefully.”

Gus read Blackford Oakes's resignation from the Central Intelligence Agency, dated May 8, 1988. Yesterday.

“What's this all about?” Gus was shaking his head and the great body of hair it commanded.

“Let me tell you, Gus. I know you'll disagree”—here Blackford did draw the glass to his lips, and drank—“but I knew what I would end up doing the minute the director told me to go to Vienna. And if he hadn't sent me, I'd have resigned and made my way to Moscow, to do it there.”

“
I know what you're going to say, Blackford
. I know I know I know.”

“Yes. I'm going to kill Philby. It isn't just that Philby must die, it's that I must kill him. And he must know that it's me. He killed Ursina and our child, but he didn't kill me. It's my turn.”

As Gus listened, Blackford started reminiscing. He didn't do very much of that, habitually, but an event from the past was sharply etched in his memory and he was engrossed tonight in the telling of the one story.

“You remember the month I spent in the Philippines? I mean, you remember I told you I was there a few years ago, on a tricky assignment?

“President Marcos—President Ferdinand Marcos—was told about the operation that we had accomplished. He was very grateful. And he invited me to have dinner with him and Imelda, that's his wife—‘The Empress Imelda,' they called her. At dinner—it lasted three hours—he told me about his father. His father was an important Philippine official. When the Japanese came and conquered and took the father away to prison, the younger Marcos organized an underground group to swoop down on the prison and stage a rescue. The Japs got wind of it at the last minute, and a Japanese sergeant went to the senior Marcos's cell and shot him through the eyes. Ferdinand Marcos was ten yards away when it happened. He escaped.

“He told me that his mission became to find that Japanese soldier and shoot him. He said he tracked him for two years during the occupation. He found him one afternoon at his station in a compound. ‘I had my pistol in my hand and could have just pulled the trigger,' he said. ‘But that wasn't what I needed to do. So I called out—I knew his name—“Yishita!” He whirled about, a few feet from me. I said, “This is Marcos Jr.” That gave him the time I wanted him to have, to know that it was me. That I was there to pay him my father's debt.'”

Gus said nothing.

“That story became very important to me after I learned the cause of Ursina's death. That's how it has to be, and I'll do it tomorrow, at the airport. He'll know it wasn't just … an Austrian sniper.”

Gus thought to draw Blackford's mind away. Perhaps spend a minute or two on technical matters. He must not just say to him, “You are not to do it.” It must not even cross Gus's mind how to prevent Blackford from doing it.
Though it did in fact cross his mind
. He could contrive to have Blackford detained tomorrow!—he could figure out
some
way to make that happen, giving Philby time to get to the airport and back to Moscow. But as he fingered the edges of his idea, he knew he must not do it.

So he turned to other matters. “Black, you got a gun?”

“Yes. Pistols aren't hard to find in Vienna.”

“Where will you hide out waiting for Philby?”

“There's a hangar alongside. It's used for VIP receptions and for when it's raining. There's a men's room there. I scouted it this morning.”

“You will of course escape. Now, I'll be riding with you to the airport—”