The Kremlin Letter (16 page)

Rone put on the clothes while breathing through his mouth.

“Yes,” Buley finally declared after examining Yorgi from all sides, “yes, you have a great potential as a peasant. Now shall we settle down and find you some parents and a random relative or two?”

After class Rone changed his clothes and rushed back to the room. The Whore was lying on the bed reading a comic book.

“You smell awful,” he said to Rone. “Where the devil have you been?”

“Have you had your personality session with Buley yet?” asked Rone, tearing off his clothes and heading for the shower.

“No.”

“Wait.”

“Hold on, old man. You're only supposed to wash in Russian water.”

“Tomorrow!”

After a lunch of thick, stringy vegetable soup, black bread and a glass of tea, Rone went to the fourth floor, where an improvised dental office had been put together. He had never seen the dentist before and assumed he had arrived with the staff for the Tillinger mansion. He explained to Rone that his two fillings would have to be removed and replaced with Russian dental cements. He gave Rone Novocain and then picked up hand tools and a manual drill and began opening the cavities. Buley had explained the dental story to Rone. Yorgi had served with the Red Army in the final days of Stalingrad, and the teeth were drilled at a field dental hospital after the Russian victory. Buley insisted on using old Russian instruments, which was perhaps unnecessary, though there was a distinct difference between the effects of hand and mechanical drills. The cement would be new, but Yorgi could always explain that he had had his teeth refilled within the last two years. At an autopsy, of course, no explanation would be necessary.

Rone's schedule card indicated another two hours of personality instruction, but this time the location and teacher had changed. He was to report to the Casket Maker in the subbasement. When he got there he found the space had been converted into a rifle range and arsenal. The Casket Maker began displaying Russian rifles and sidearms that Yorgi should have used at Stalingrad. Rone spent the first hour taking the weapons apart and reassembling them. He spent forty minutes on the firing range.

Before he left the Casket Maker gave him a thick loose-leaf notebook containing detailed information on the Red Army's defense and attack at Stalingrad. It also included pictures of uniforms, rank, insignias and machinery, as well as the names and photographs of the generals and staff officers. Rone was told to familiarize himself with all the information. The last section of the book was typed on blue onion-skin paper. It was the military history of Yorgi Ivanovitch Davitashvili. This he must memorize.

When Rone returned to his room later that night he found a neat stack of brochures on his bed with a note: “Please familiarize by morning.” Although there were no departmental markings on the covers, the reports looked like National Security Agency material. They were top-secret biographies and evaluations of the Kremlin's Central Committee and fifteen other high officials. There was a notation on the last biography: “Of Special Interest.” The brochure dealt with Aleksei I. Bresnavitch.

15

Surveillance

Breakfast the next morning was once again kasha. This time a peach was added to the diet. As they were eating Ward announced that except at certain lectures, only Russian would be spoken in the security area from here on in.

“The Georgians speak notoriously bad Russian,” Clocker Dan announced at Rone's language lesson. “You must master their pronunciation and words. We will go back to kindergarten and work forward. Here are the schoolbooks you would have had.” He handed Rone a stack of thin, worn pamphlets. He switched on a record player. “And these are the first songs you would have learned as a child,” he said as the first strains of energetic and exotic music filled the room.

When Rone arrived for his personality instruction Professor Buley led him to a room in the subbasement adjoining the rifle range. He handed him a sledge hammer.

“If you break through the concrete you will come to dirt. Then you can spend an hour each day digging. That's what farmers do, you know.”

As Rone cracked through the concrete floor Buley sat in the corner shouting more of Rone's cover story. He elaborated on the founding of Tiflis in the fifth century and began working forward. When the session finished Buley took him upstairs and gave him a notebook on the agricultural aspects of Georgia.

“Memorize it by tomorrow,” he told him.

In the afternoon Rone was given his first action assignment on the interior project. He and Janis were to watch every move made by Potkin's eldest daughter, Sonia. Other members of the group were assigned to his younger daughter and to his wife.

Sonia was a big-boned girl of eighteen. Her dark hair was swept back into a bun, accentuating the high forehead and square face. Even though she dressed in the latest teenage American fashions, she wore no makeup. She had thick legs and a stocky body. The loss of fifteen pounds would have left her much more feminine.

Rone and Janis had already been extensively briefed on her habits, so they knew she would be chauffeured from home to an art school on 57th Street around nine
A
.
M
. and picked up at five-thirty. Sonia had enrolled eight months before and seemed to have much enthusiasm and some talent.

At one-thirty Rone entered the art school and went to the registrar's desk.

“Are you interested in full-time or part-time instruction?” the biddy behind the desk asked him.

“Well, I'm not sure,” answered Rone. “I'm not even sure I
can
paint.”

“But do you
want
to?” the registrar asked with passion. “Do you really
want
to?”

“I think so.”

“Oh no, young man. Thinking is not enough. Do you have the urge?”

“I have a lot of urges,” Rone admitted.

“Is it a deep, burning, compelling urge, a desire that a thousand floods could not quench?”

“Now that you mention it, I guess it
is.
”

The registrar smiled maternally. “Then that's all you need to paint.”

“What about talent?”

“That will develop in time.”

“Don't I need any to start with?”

“What you lack we will give you. Now in my opinion the full-time course is tailor-made for your needs. Yes it is.”

Rone saw Sonia come out of the cafeteria. She walked past him and turned up a flight of stairs.

“… so if that's agreeable to you just sign this contract and leave a hundred-dollar deposit and you can start class immediately.”

“You mean I'm accepted?”

“Of
course
. I knew the moment I laid eyes on you that you had great potential.”

“Thank you, but I'll have to see if I can make enough free time to take all of this. Would you mind writing that schedule out for me?”

“Of course not.” The registrar typed out the information and handed it to Rone. “If you like there is a social meeting for first-year students every Friday and Tuesday night.”

“I'll try to make it, and thank you again.” Rone started out.

“And if you want to bring someone to the meetings, please do. Every student is allowed three guests.”

At four o'clock Sonia left the art school and walked slowly east on 57th Street. She stopped to look into several bookstore and antique-shop windows. At Fifth Avenue she turned north and walked into Central Park, pausing in front of the sea lion pool in the zoo. A few minutes later an attendant appeared with a pail and began throwing food to the animals. Sonia watched in great glee. Her next stop was the lion house. This seemed to fascinate her. She took out a pad and made a few fast sketches and then looked over to the tower clock. The time seemed to frighten her. She started half running along a path that traversed the park. She would run a few hundred feet and then walk until she was rested enough to run again. She continued until she was back at the art school on 57th Street. The time was five twenty-seven
P
.
M
. She stepped inside the door and waited. At five-thirty the car which had taken her to school in the morning pulled up. Sonia walked out and got in.

Rone and, Janis stood across the street farther down the block and watched as the car pulled away.

“Are we going to follow it?” asked Rone.

“There's no need. It's only taking her home.”

“Even so—”

“My dear fellow,” Janis said paternally, “the Warlock set this up. He watched her first. He's the master. We must learn to listen to the master. If he had wanted her followed that closely he would have given us an auto. So just you relax and watch that grocery truck parked down the street.”

Rone could see the driver of the truck looking into his rear-view mirror. He scanned the area carefully and then started off after the car.

“Is that one of ours?” he asked Janis.

“One of ours? My dear fellow, we have too much panache to go chasing about in a common grocery truck.”

When Rone returned to his room that night there was another stack of brochures on his bed, dealing with officials in the various Russian intelligence services. The note on top of the pile stated: Read by morning.

16

The Examination

Tactical briefing number one took place in the basement meeting room after breakfast. A gaunt, lean man with a Viennese accent gave the lecture. It dealt with Russian interrogation methods. He traced the evolution of brainwashing, torture and coercion as practiced in the Soviet Union for the last forty-six years. He showed motion pictures and slides of technical devices as well as quickly outlining investigation techniques.

When Rone arrived for his session with Buley he found the professor waiting with a large assortment of Russian farm tools. He instructed Rone in their proper use and then continued developing the cover story of Yorgi. Rone dug as the professor shot question after question at him in an attempt to trip him up.

The language lesson with Clocker Dan was spent singing Georgian children's songs.

In the afternoon Rone joined Janis down the block from Sonia's art school. Once again she left the building at four
P
.
M
., walked to the park zoo, sketched, then returned without talking to anyone. Just as on the day before, the car, followed at a distance by the grocery truck, picked her up at five-thirty.

“That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen,” said Janis. “That truck accomplishes absolutely nothing.”

“Then why are they using it?” asked Rone.

“Looks like a slight case of nerves.”

“About what?”

“Maybe us.”

After supper Rone was summoned to the dining room. The Highwayman, Ward and Professor Buley were waiting for him.

“Nephew Yorgi,” announced Ward, “the time has come to see just how well you have learned your lessons. Each of us will be popping a few questions at you. Now, we'd like you to answer as quickly as you can, and we would also like you to be as complete as you can.”

Rone nodded.

“The other night, you were given brochures on certain Soviet personages. I would like to start with Bresnavitch. What is his full name?”

“Aleksei I. Bresnavitch.”

“There was a photograph of him in the brochure. Try to describe it.”

“He has an angular face with a long, tight jaw. His eyes are hardset and rather close together. His nose is aquiline. He has a receding hairline and parts his hair slightly to the right. His hair looked slightly gray in the photograph. His mouth was large. He had full lips.”

“Now tell us about” the report. From the beginning.”

“The first page was all facts,” said Rone.

“Tell us.”

“Name: Bresnavitch, Aleksei I. Born: Leningrad, February 13, 1898. Father: Ilya. Mother: Exact name not known, believed to be Gurla. Occupation of Father: Frame maker. Brothers: Boris, killed 1942. Sisters: None. Education: Unknown, believed to have studied in Kiev—unconfirmed. Height: Five feet ten. Weight: Approximately a hundred and eighty-five pounds. Eyes: Gray. Distinguishing marks: Scar at base of right ear.”

Rone was aware of the Highwayman's stare. “How many times did you read that page?” he asked.

“Once,” answered Rone. He saw Ward nod to the Highwayman.

“Please begin with the report,” said Ward.

“A.I. Bresnavitch is a master politician within the ruling clique of the Communist Party itself,” Rone began. “He grew up with the revolution. His credentials are all in order. Arrest, imprisonment, exile, torture—I can give you the dates and places if you want.”

“That won't be necessary,” said Ward. “Just keep going.”

“His political career began when he met Lenin in Germany. Later he was exiled to Siberia with Stalin. He met Trotsky at the front. Is this too brief?”

“Just keep up the way you're going,” said Ward.

“Bresnavitch disliked Lenin, but supported him instead of Trotsky, who had become one of his closest friends. When Lenin died he gambled and gambled well. This time he supported Stalin, whom he distrusted, rather than Trotsky, whom he still admired. After Stalin's death he was forced into still another choice. This time he threw his weight behind Khrushchev instead of Malenkov. Bresnavitch is in no way a toady. He's a practical Bolshevik and a hardened revolutionary. He retreats when he feels he should retreat and he attacks when he feels he should attack. During Stalin's regime he openly opposed Beria. The feud became so bitter that Western Kremlinologists gave Bresnavitch little chance of survival. In the end it was Beria who fell and Bresnavitch who flourished.

“Another one of his targets was Chou En-lai. He started his attack at a time when Moscow treated Peking with confidence and respect. Once again history seems to have sided with him.