Sleeper Spy (62 page)

They nodded cheerfully to a surprised Sirkka on the plane and squeezed into a pair of seats three rows behind her.

Irving, fastening his belt, startled him with “You got the hots for Liana, huh?” Davidov did not react, which did not stop his seatmate. “Lemme give you some advice. She’s a reporter. You ever have the hots for a girl reporter before?”

“No,” the KGB man replied, careful to give little away. “I have never had the hots for a woman journalist.”

“You can insult ’em, you can run ’em ragged, you can browbeat ’em, you can steal ’em blind. They lap it up, makes ’em feel like one of the guys.” He wriggled around. “How do these commie seat belts work?”

Davidov reached over and clicked the Russian-made buckle into place. When Irving seemed to lose his train of thought, Davidov said, “They lap it up.”

“Yeah. But double-cross ’em on a story and you’re a shit in their eyes for the rest of your life. And they’ll keep after you till they run you into the ground. Now here we are, you and I, with the knowledge that Liana is the sleeper’s daughter, which she doesn’t know.”

“And we are now certain that the sleeper is Edward Dominick, which she also does not know.”

“She’s gonna find out pretty soon, maybe from her pappy himself, because she’s hungry, like a reporter has to be. And then it’ll hit Liana that we knew all along and didn’t tell her. That’s gonna piss her off at me—which is too bad, I like the kid—but it’s gonna knock you clean out of the ring, if you get what I mean.”

“I take your point,” Davidov said, familiar with the boxing metaphor. He resolved to inform Liana at the first opportunity, or at least to use the sleeper’s daughter in such a way as not to let her think he had betrayed her trust, such as it was. “From your generous advice, I take it that your own hots are directed to the woman in Arizona.”

“That murdering sumbitch loverboy Dominick broke her spirit, that and the way everybody in her miserable fucking world of backstabbing bastards piled on.” He concluded his outburst with a sigh. “No family loyalty, the way print reporters have, or used to. I think about Viveca a lot. I think about her all the time, for crissake.”

Davidov, who still discounted much of what Fein had said, and had been unable to get an explanation of the “fireflies” reference out of him, detected a note of sincerity in that. He would have felt sympathy for the man defeated for the affection of his beloved by a skilled seducer, were it not for his rage at Fein’s almost casual conquest of the woman Davidov thought about constantly. “Surely Viveca Farr was encouraged by your visit.”

“When I tried to tell her to cheer up, she went into a deep funk. Here’s some good advice about handling depressed women, Niko: never tell ’em to cheer up. Never offer a smidgin of optimism, because they take that as proof you despise their beloved despair.”

“Maybe she isn’t cut out for the reporting busines,” Davidov offered.

“She’s not. Not everybody is. But she’s still entitled to a life.” His head back and eyes closed to take a nap, the American asked out of the blue, yawning: “Was Nosenko a dangle?”

Davidov recalled what he had read about that defection of thirty years ago. CIA counterintelligence worried that Yuri Nosenko had been sent over as a false defector to reassure the Americans that the KGB had had no part in the Kennedy assassination. Davidov had pulled that file out for possible sale before being visited by Ace McFarland in Moscow; in it was a statement that of all defectors, the one Director Andropov most wanted to see dead was Nosenko. Now, that would suggest that Nosenko was a real defector, handing over damaging information about the KGB; but the other possibility was that he was a successful dangle and the KGB Director was worried he might someday be broken. Such limits to certainty were at the heart of epistemology,
mankind’s sustained attempt to push the envelope of knowledge about knowledge.

“No freebies,” the KGB man parroted. A few minutes later, as Irving began to snore, Nikolai said, “The files contain proof that Nosenko was a real defector, not a dangle.” He could not be sure that Irving’s snoring was not a deception, but he presumed that the reporter—if aware and falsely snoring—could not be sure the KGB official was not aware of that.

“You need an ally,” Karl von Schwebel told him. “You cannot go into this alone.”

“I always like to have allies,” Dominick responded cordially. “I’m a born coalition-builder.”

“Be serious.” The media baron—a bogus title to which he never objected—saw an opportunity to position himself near the center of the largest financial arrangement in history. “First, I have to know—are you actually Berensky, as my wife believes? Or are you a remarkably skillful impersonator, as I believe? Or are you both, if that’s possible?”

“My name is Edward Dominick. I’m a Memphis, Tennessee, banker, and I’m told you own the company I hired to protect me from snoopers. The way I figure it, that means I have no secrets from you.”

“You are telling me that you are indeed the impersonator,” said von Schwebel, trying to fix a position without losing momentum, “working with Fein and probably the CIA to find the assets the real sleeper has amassed.”

“You’re free to draw whatever inference you like, my friend.” Dominick, seated comfortably in his hotel suite, was giving nothing away; von Schwebel, who came equipped with an electronic device to jam any transmitters or recorders, was not to be so easily put off.

“You don’t seem to realize that your life is hanging by a thread.” The German let that statement lie there unadorned.

After a moment, Dominick—Berensky/Dominick—said, “You’ve got my attention, Karl. Who’s out to get me?”

“Both sides. The Feliks people headquartered here, if they come to believe you are an impostor, are prepared to kill you. There is some talk of trading you for the chief Chechen murderer, now being held by the KGB, but frankly Chechens are cheap.”

“You said both sides.”

“And Davidov of the KGB is prepared to order your elimination—if he believes you are the real sleeper about to transfer the assets to what he calls the mafiya.”

The visitor from Memphis smiled, impressing the German as a man who enjoyed the most perilous predicament. “Then I could sure use an ally, as you say. What can you do for me?”

“Provide you with information that might save your life. Of equal importance, I can support your bona fides as the sleeper to the Feliks organization. That will help you make your deal.” He noted that the Memphis man had dropped his pose of nonchalance and was at last showing a serious interest. “That involves considerable risk to me, as the fate of a fellow named Arkady Volkovich shows. When I take such a risk, I expect a handsome return.”

“Tell me first who is saying what about me here.”

Von Schwebel was prepared to put a sample on the table. “I have reported to Madame Nina, and to the board that calls itself the politburo, that you are an impostor, that your operation is a CIA front. That puts you in danger with them.” With some relish, the media owner revealed the range of his usefulness: “My wife, Sirkka, with whom the sleeper has had contact through an intermediary, believes you are the true Berensky, and has so informed Davidov. That puts you in danger from the KGB, because it convinces them that you can deliver the fortune to whomever you choose.”

“You married well. It’s helpful when a husband and wife can agree to disagree, and work both sides of the street. On your side, what other reports are coming in to the Feliks people about me?”

“I take it you want to know what sort of an impression you made on your first wife at Claridge’s.”

“That would be valuable to me,” Dominick acknowledged.

“More than valuable,” the German pressed. “It is central to your credibility. If she has reported you are her husband, you must appear
contrite at leaving her. If she has accused you of being an impostor, you must recall to the committee her hatred and jealousy.”

“Do you know what she played back to Madame Nina?”

“Yes.”

“And you are prepared to vouchsafe that to me?”

“If you make my wife and me your junior partners.”

“How junior?”

“Five percent, if you are the sleeper himself. Or five billion dollars, whichever is larger. For the active help of the two of us.”

Dominick did not blink at that. “And what if I am not Berensky?”

“One-third of whatever brokerage you get from the real sleeper. I presume your take would be a large fraction of the sleeper’s assets.”

“Three percent of the first, if I am the real sleeper, or one-fourth of the second, if I am the impostor-broker,” the Memphis man offered, maintaining the mystery of his identity. Then he added qualifiers: “Payable when and as I make the transfer, provided I am alive and free. And nothing in writing; you’ll have to trust me, as everyone always has.”

The German extended his hand, and Dominick or Berensky shook it firmly. “That gives me a great interest in your continued good health.” He did not know which name to call him, so he used neither.

“Here’s what I need, Karl. Get Sirkka to change her story to Davidov. Get her to shake his present certainty that I am Berensky, and to at least allow for the possibility I am not the real sleeper. That may require Sirkka to get very close to Davidov, and quickly.”

He was issuing orders to employees; von Schwebel, with the price right, understood and accepted that. “I will leave her means to accomplish that mission to her discretion,” he replied; his wife would do what an attractive female double agent sometimes had to do.

“Now tell me what Antonia Krumins reported about her meeting in London with her former husband.”

“This will surprise and displease you,” von Schwebel reported, now that his loyalty ran to a new center of power. “Madame Nina reported she debriefed the woman herself. She told the board last night that Mrs. Krumins said you were not—repeat not—Aleks Berensky. That you came well prepared with family secrets, and some of your physical characteristics were well rehearsed, but that you were an actor, not her husband.”

That seemed not to surprise him. “You’re sure? Maybe Madame Nina’s lying.”

“That’s possible. But nobody’s going to challenge her.”

“You will. I am positive that damned woman was certain I was Aleks Berensky.”

“Maybe she was, but lied to Madame Nina. Woman scorned, and all that.” After turning that possibility over in his mind, von Schwebel rejected it. “Madame Nina would see through that. She’s a shrewd judge of character, and dominates the board by her command presence. Nobody dares lie to her.” He was prepared to do precisely that, but the reward was enormous.

“What could I have done wrong?” Dominick shook his head, irritated at himself. “I’ll just have to turn it around tonight. Will you be there?”

“I’ll be consulted beforehand, in the wine cellar where the meetings are held. It is vital that you and I keep our stories coordinated. You and I had this meeting today. I am asking you about your holdings in the media, as a test to see if you are the real sleeper. Can you give me a sample?”

“You found out I own a shell in the Antilles that controls the Dresdener Creditbank, which holds all the mortgages on the properties of Satellvision.”

Von Schwebel had been trying to buy that multinational and knew its considerable assets in stations and production facilities. “That company even owns the best television station here in Riga,” he noted.

“I know. I wanted to make sure nobody blocked my daughter Liana’s career.”

“Then you really are the sleeper?”

“If I answered that, brother Karl, would you believe me?”

Von Schwebel shook his head no. “I have a firm principle, which has guided me to a position of great power in the world of international business. I firmly believe what it is most profitable for me to believe at any given moment.”

Dominick—von Schwebel still thought of him as that—consulted his watch and asked him to stop in the bar downstairs and send up Liana, who was expected about that hour. The media baron could not remember the last time he had been dismissed and sent on an errand by anyone other than Madame Nina, but the prospect of a payoff
perhaps in the billions induced even in him the sweetest humility. He now had two bosses, but that clash of interests could not last long.