To Free a Spy (26 page)

Warfield had e-mailed Antonov his flight schedule and once inside the terminal he heard someone speak his name. The man in his late thirties introduced himself as Takao Komeito and said Antonov sent him. They weaved their way through the crowded concourse to a waiting limousine outside the terminal and after Komeito gave the driver instructions in Japanese, he turned to Warfield. “General Antonov speaks very well of you, Colonel Warfield.”

“He’ll get to know me better,” Warfield said, wondering if an attempt at humor was appropriate.

Komeito stared at him. “Better hope not, Colonel.”

“How so?”

“General doesn’t like? He kill.” Komeito kept a straight face for a second before breaking up. Warfield knew he could like the guy.

“You work with General Antonov?” Warfield asked.

“I worked for him when he traveled here on military business before he retired. I am employed at the Russian Embassy here. Unimportant job. Easy for me to take leave while general is in Tokyo.”

Warfield nodded and asked the dapper Komeito, “So Antonov still receives official treatment?”

“Embassy is most hospitable to General Antonov even now. Highly respected.”

“Where is he?”

“He is busy. If you please, you will check into hotel now and meet with General Antonov for dinner. I will be assisting you both, if okay with you.”

Warfield nodded and asked Komeito how he would like to be addressed.

“Komeito. Call me Komeito.”

Warfield liked the way Komeito handled himself. Confident but unpretentious. He doubted if Komeito was as unimportant as he painted himself.

The hotel’s name, East Island Winds, meant nothing to Warfield but its lobby was as grand as any Ritz-Carlton he’d seen. Komeito registered for Warfield and stayed by his side until he was in his room and Komeito was satisfied it met his satisfaction. Some of the staff seemed to know Komeito, and Warfield wondered if he was receiving V.I.P. treatment because of him, or maybe Antonov, or if it was hospitality typical of a fine Japanese hotel. “General Antonov wishes for you to meet him in Izumi Restaurant for dinner at seven this evening. May I say you will join him?”

Komeito said the restaurant was four blocks from the hotel and offered to pick him up but Warfield opted to walk.

After Komeito left, Warfield dressed in shorts and tee-shirt and went for a run, committing landmarks to memory at every turn. He saw no one else running in the streets and soon understood why. Vehicle and pedestrian traffic was dense, presenting an obstacle course. He ran twenty minutes out and turned back.

* * *

Warfield recognized Antonov standing in the bar. He hadn’t changed much since they met years ago in Russia, although his leathery face reflected the hard Russian winters. Antonov was better than six-foot-three and looked even taller among the Japanese. Retirement agreed with him. Tan, fit looking, full head of graying hair. The Hawaiian shirt he wore under his blazer was anything but that of the stereotypical Russian military leader. Warfield was surprised when the general gathered him into a bear hug, then held him by his shoulders at arms’ length and sized him up as he might have looked at a son he hadn’t seen for a long time. The Russian would have gone unnoticed in any fancy restaurant in the U.S., his graying hair neatly trimmed and hanging softly at the top of his collar, shuttered eyes barely masking the harder days of the Cold War, neither a smile nor a frown on his face. A man, Warfield thought, who undoubtedly inspired trust and confidence in his leaders and followers from the past.

The crowded restaurant was full of chatter and the clanking of dishes. The warm smells of garlic and other tantalizing kitchen juices filled the air. The general signaled the maitre d’, who seated them at a corner table that afforded privacy. Warfield hadn’t noticed Komeito at the bar, but he showed up when they were being seated. “You’ve met Komeito, correct?” Antonov asked.

Antonov leaned back in his chair and asked about Warfield’s flight, said he was glad he came and told a couple of Russian jokes. Warfield had not thought of Antonov as lighthearted and felt the jokes were meant to mislead anyone who might be observing. So he jumped in with a couple of stories of his own but allowed Antonov to set the pace. There was no room for two chiefs here and not only did Antonov outrank him, this was his show. In a technical way, rank made no difference. Both men were retired from the military and from different countries, but there was an understood protocol in such circumstances. Warfield liked Antonov and hoped he could trust him. The man made easy eye contact and had a comfortable air about him, and by contacting him as he did about Petrevich, Antonov had followed through on an informal agreement the two men made years earlier.

The first hour was light. Antonov in his gravelly voice told Warfield about his history with Komeito. Komeito had been his interpreter and aide on Antonov’s trips to Japan over the years, and he knew how to get around obstacles. Warfield took that to mean Komeito had helpful official contacts and perhaps served as a bodyguard. Warfield explained his unofficial connection with the White House and Antonov wanted to know how it was to work there, and with President Cross, and contrasted it with his own experience in Moscow.

They talked about the changes in their countries’ relationship, and the fact they could sit at dinner together. Antonov caught the waiter’s eye and they ordered. Warfield and Komeito ordered sushi. Antonov was shy about ordering the raw delicacy but when Warfield cajoled him he threw up his hands, relenting.

Antonov then leaned in toward Warfield. “You are wondering why we are in Tokyo”.

Warfield nodded.

“Our friend is here.”

“Petrevich?”

“Boris Petrevich. Exactly.”

Warfield took a second to digest it. So Petrevich’s entry into Iraq was a red herring. That was believable. Petrevich—or his handler—knew Iraq was a destination no one would question and Warfield admonished himself now for not thinking outside the box. But Japan?

“Why?”
he asked.

“I cannot answer that question yet,” said Antonov. “Perhaps you and I will find out together tonight. But if you want to get involved in this, I must ask for a commitment from you.”

“Which is?”

“That you will not involve your government agencies in this matter.”

Warfield studied his drink. Without official U.S. involvement he and Antonov would be playing a dangerous game. The ramifications were unfathomable. And the responsibility would be theirs. Warfield had already tried to get the feds involved and failed and then the FBI blew the operation at the border. He hadn’t forgotten where that left him. If he went to Cross now, the president would bring in national security advisor Otto Stern and Fullwood and Quinn, and that would make any swift action impossible. He’d be on his own.

He had no better alternative than Antonov’s demand, and no choice if he wanted to be involved. He looked at Antonov and signaled his agreement.

Antonov looked him in the eye and nodded almost unnoticeably, sealing the contract. “There is a Russian men’s gathering place here in Tokyo—Moscow East, they call it. Private nightclub. Outsiders not welcome—except for some female talent they bring in for entertainment. The regulars play Russian music, dance, gamble, drink, fool around with the women. You know the sort of hangout, Warfield. These men have their good times but it is a rough place located in the back room of a bar having the unlikely name of the Texas Saloon.” Antonov’s eyes smiled as if to say he’d been there a few times himself.”

“On business, of course!”

Antonov nodded. “Mostly to watch for Boris Petrevich. Finally saw him. He saw me too, knows who I am—I saw the look in his eyes. Afterwards, Komeito and me, we followed him but lost him somewhere near the airport.”

“How did you know he was in Tokyo?”

“Former KGB general I know. Garovsky. Retired now. I ran into him at a market in Moscow. Went for a drink. Conversation got around to the nukes impounded at various Russian sites and how vulnerable they were, how some of the physics boys had already tapped them. Give you one guess whose name came up in that conversation.”

“Boris Petrevich,” Warfield said.

“Right. And Garovsky told me he is in Tokyo.”

“How long?”

“Year and a half now.”

“Why didn’t the SVR pursue him?” The SVR was Russia’s central intelligence organization that took over most of the functions of the old KGB.

Antonov shook his head. “KGB was in shambles when the USSR dissolved, Colonel. Disorganized, broke, demoralized. Even after it became SVR there was more political infighting, and they had no money to operate with, like everything else in Russia. They couldn’t protect the nuclear stockpile. Trying now to contain it but Russia has announced it will go it alone from here on without the help of your country. Nothing is guaranteed. You can thank Putin for that.”

“Anything more about Petrevich?”

Antonov frowned. “A former big player at Arzamas-16, our nuclear research site.”

Just as Abbas had said. Petrevich had worked at the great secret plant where the Russians sent their best engineering and physics graduates to design and build nuclear weapons. Russia’s Los Alamos, and then some.

Antonov went on. “Petrevich is a dangerous man. A renegade all along, but a brilliant one. Our people had to put up with him because of his mind. He came up with one idea after another for getting ahead of you Americans, but when he was no longer a precious commodity to Moscow he received the same inadequate pension the commoners got. When things started picking up in the last few years and most of the scientists were making at least a few rubles, he was left out. He’d been high-handed during the Cold War, but when he was no longer essential the people he had offended didn’t forget.”

“Why did it take so long for this information to get to you?”

Antonov looked up in apparent wonder. “My contacts didn’t know about it. I happened to pick it up in my conversation with my KGB friend. SVR forgot about Petrevich. They had more than they could do with plenty like him who had not yet found a way to do what Petrevich did. When Petrevich left Arzamas-16 he lived close to poverty. No family, no connections. No one noticed he had taken the nuclear materials with him. He knew how to go around the controls they had on the stuff. Covered his tracks very well.”

“Is he alone here?”

“I do not think so. Two others may have joined him. I saw one big blond-haired boy with him at the Russian club. He fit the description of one of them. Little rough. Petrevich had trouble keeping him in line that night at Moscow East.”

Damn
Fullwood, Warfield thought. He could have prevented all of this. After a moment he asked Antonov, “You have a plan?”

The waiter cleared the table and Antonov pulled three cigars out of his pocket. “Cuban,” he said. He smiled with his eyes and winked at Warfield as he offered them around.

“It’s going to be more difficult now that Petrevich has seen me. Later tonight we may learn more.”

“Tonight?”

“The Texas Saloon, entrance to the Moscow East.” Antonov said he had talked with a prostitute named Romi, whom he’d met there. She had noticed the big man with blond hair in the Russian club. Saw him later in the Texas Saloon drunk, obnoxious, talking loud. She told Antonov he might learn more from the bartender at the Texas.

“A man of that description is noticed in Japan, you know,” Antonov said.

Warfield nodded. “Like us.”

Antonov released a cloud of blue smoke above the table.

“Yes, like us.”

They looked at Komeito. He was laughing at them.

“What else did this Romi tell you?” Warfield asked Antonov.

“One other minor detail: The blond Russian kid, there in the Texas Saloon, threatened to kill his boss—his Japanese superior—at his bath house.”

“She heard him say that?”

Antonov nodded. “The man’s brother too. I don’t know why the brother. Romi says the blond Russian called him retarded.”

Warfield seemed skeptical. “How much credibility do you give the girl?”

Antonov shrugged. “You tell me. She also said he brags about building bombs for a living.”

“We’re getting warmer.”

“And that the Russian and the bartender got into a hot argument.”

Warfield blew a stream of cigar smoke. “Maybe vodka talk.”

“Could be, yes. Let us ask the bartender what he thinks. Name is Tex.”

“I suppose Petrevich will not return to the club,” Warfield said.

“Not openly. Too smart for that. After seeing me there he will play it safe.”

“You never saw the kid with blond hair again?” Warfield asked.

“No.”

“He got a name yet?”

“No, but we will find him. His eyelids are tattooed.”

Warfield couldn’t keep from smiling. “That should help! We’ll just catch him sleeping.”

Antonov chuckled. “Snake on each eyelid. They look at each other. All coiled up, tongues leaping out like this.” He pointed his index fingers at each other and wiggled them, and darted his tongue in and out. Warfield and Komeito laughed. This big Russian could be a clown.

“Know anything about this bath house?” Warfield asked.

“Romi knew it was called the Tomodachi Sento-yu. Took me there. I even got into the water to see what it was like. When she questioned the old man running the place for me and described Snake-eyes to him, he said he’d seen a man who fit the description outside the bath house a few days earlier looking the place over. Probably him.”

Warfield nodded.

“It gets better,” Antonov said. “We are talking with the super at the bath house when two men walk in together. Japanese. Something wrong with one of them. May be the retarded brother. Maybe not. Romi thinks the man we saw was a radiation victim.”

“Radiation?”

Antonov nodded to Komeito to explain.

Komeito sat forward in his seat. “Romi suspect this because schools in Japan teach about it. When the bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, radiation affected certain fetuses in the womb. Some very badly,” Komeito said.

“And Romi thinks he might be one of them.” Warfield said.