The Matarese Circle (12 page)

“To be frank,” he said to the night duty officer, a former associate, “we have our on-going problem with VKR. They’ve interfered again. You may get a teletype inquiry. You haven’t heard from me, all right?”

“That’s no problem as long as you don’t show up here; you called on the right telephone. Are you staying in cover?”

“Yes. I won’t burden you with my whereabouts. We’re involved with a courier probe, convoys of trucks heading for Odessa, then south to the mountains. It’s a CIA network.”

“That’s easier than fishing boats through the Bosporus. By the way, does Amsterdam fit into your blueprints?”

Taleniekov was startled. He had not expected so quick a reply from his man there. “It could. What have you got?”

“It came in two hours ago; it took that long to break. Our cryptographer—the man you brought from Riga—recognized an old code of yours. We were going to send it on to Moscow with the morning’s dispatches.”

“Don’t do that,” said Vasili. “Read it to me.”

“Wait a minute.” Papers were shuffled. “Here it is. ‘Beowulf removed from orbit. Storm clouds Washington. On strength of imperative will pursue and deliver white contact. Cable instructions capitol depot.’ That’s it.”

“It’s enough,” said Taleniekov.

“Sounds impressive, Vasili. A white contact? You’ve struck a high-level defection, I gather. Good for you. Is it tied in with your probe?”

“I think so,” lied Taleniekov. “But don’t say anything. Keep VKR out.”

“With pleasure. You want us to cable for you?”

“No,” replied Vasili, “I can do it. It’s routine. I’ll call you this evening. Say nine-thirty; that should be time enough. Tell my old friend from Riga I said hello. No one else, however. And thank you.”

“When your probe’s over, let’s have dinner. It’s good to have you back in Sevastopol.”

“It’s good to be back. We’ll talk.” Taleniekov hung up, concentrating on the message from Amsterdam. Scofield had been recalled to Washington, but the circumstances were abnormal. Beowulf Agate had run into a severe State Department storm. That fact alone was enough to propel
an agent from Brussels into a transatlantic pursuit, debts notwithstanding. A white status contact was a momentary truce; a truce generally meant that someone was about to do something drastic. And if there existed even the remote possibility that the legendary Scofield might defect, any risk was worth the candle. The man who brought in Beowulf Agate would have all of Soviet Intelligence at his feet.

But defection was not possible for Scofield … any more than it was for him. The enemy was the enemy; that would never change.

Vasili picked up the phone again. There was an all-night number in the Lazarev district of the waterfront used by Greek and Iranian businessmen to send out cables to their home offices. By saying the right words, priority would be given over the existing traffic; within several hours his cable would reach “capitol depot.” It was a hotel on Nebraska Avenue in Washington, D.C.

He would meet with Scofield on neutral ground, some place where neither could take advantage of the location. Within the departure gates of an airline where the security measures were the harshest—West Berlin or Tel Aviv, it did not matter; distance was inconsequential. But they had to meet, and Scofield had to be convinced of the necessity of that meeting. The cipher to Washington instructed the agent from Brussels to convey the following to Beowulf Agate.

It was nearly four o’clock in the morning before he closed his eyes. He had not slept in nearly three days, and when sleep came, it was deep and long. He had gone to
bed before there was any evidence of the sun in the eastern sky; he awoke an hour after it had descended in the west. That was good. His mind and his body had needed the rest, and one traveled at night to the place he was going in Sevastopol.

There were three hours before the duty officer arrived at KGB; it was simpler not to involve anyone else at headquarters. The fewer who knew he was in the city, the better. Of course, the cryptographer knew, he had deduced the connection from the cipher out of Amsterdam, but the man would say nothing. Taleniekov had trained him, taken a bright young man from the austerity of Riga to the freer life in Sevastopol.

The time could be well spent, thought Vasili. He would eat, then make arrangements for passage in the hold of a Greek freighter that would cut straight across the sea, then follow the southern coast through the Bosporus, and on to the Dardanelles. If any of the Greek or Iranian units in the pay of the CIA or SAVAK recognized him—and it was possible—he would be entirely professional. As the previous director of the KGB sector, he had not exposed the escape route for personal reasons. However, if a musician named Pietre Rydukov did not make a telephone call to Sevastopol within two days after departure, exposure was guaranteed, KGB reprisals to follow. It would be a shame; other privileged men might wish to use the route later, their talents and information worth having.

Taleniekov put on the undistinguished, ill-fitting overcoat and his battered hat. A slouch and a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles were added. He checked his appearance in the mirror; it was satisfactory. He picked up the leather violin case; it completed his disguise, for no musician left his instrument in a strange hotel room. He went out the door, down the staircase—never an elevator—and out into the Sevastopol streets. He would walk to the waterfront; he knew where to go and what to say.

Fog rolled in from the sea, curling through the beams of the floodlights on the pier. There was activity everywhere as the hold of the freighter was loaded. Giant cranes swung cables cradling enormous boxcars of merchandise over the side of the ship. The loading crews were Russian, supervised by Greeks. Soldiers milled about, weapons
slung casually over their shoulders, ineffectual patrols more interested in watching the machinery than in looking for irregularities.

If they wanted to know, mused Vasili as he approached the officer at the entrance gate, he could tell them. The irregularities were in the huge containers being lifted over the hull of the ship. Men and women packed in shredded cardboard, tubes from mouths to airspaces where necessary, instructions having been given to empty bladders and bowels several hours ago; there would be no relief until well past midnight when they were at sea.

The officer at the gate was a young lieutenant, bored with his work, irritation in his face. He scowled at the slouching, bespectacled old man before him.

“What do you want? The pier is off limits unless you have a pass.” He pointed to the violin case. “What’s that?”

“My livelihood, Lieutenant. I’m with the Sevastopol Symphony.”

“I wasn’t aware of any concerts scheduled for the docks.”

“Your name, please?” said Vasili casually.

“What?”

Taleniekov stood up to his full height, the slouch gradually but clearly disappearing. “I asked you your name, Lieutenant.”

“What for?” The officer was somewhat less hostile. Vasili removed the spectacles and looked sternly into his bewildered eyes.

“For a commendation or a reprimand.”

“What are you talking about? Who are you?”

“KGB-Sevastopol. This is part of our waterfront inspection program.”

The young lieutenant was politely hesitant; he was not a fool. “I’m afraid I wasn’t told, sir. I’ll have to ask you for identification.”

“If you didn’t, it would be the first reprimand,” said Taleniekov, reaching into his pocket for his KGB card. “The second would come if you speak of my appearance here tonight. The name, please.”

The lieutenant told him, then added, “Do you people suspect trouble down here?” He studied the plastic card and returned it.

“Trouble?” Taleniekov smiled, his eyes humorous and
conspiratorial. “The only trouble, Lieutenant, is that I’m being deprived of a warm dinner in the company of a lady. I think the new directors in Sevastopol feel compelled to earn their rubles. You men are doing a good job; they know that but don’t care to admit it.”

Relieved, the young officer smiled back. “Thank you, sir. We do our best in a monotonous job.”

“But don’t say anything about my being here, they’re serious about that. Two officers-of-the-guard were reported last week.” Vasili smiled again. “In the directors’ secrecy lies their true security. Their jobs.”

The lieutenant grinned. “I understand. Have you a weapon in that case?”

“No. Actually it’s a very good violin. I wish I could play it.”

Both men nodded knowingly. Taleniekov continued onto the pier, into the melee of machinery, dock workers and supervisors. He was looking for a specific supervisor, a Greek from Kavalla named Zaimis. Which was to say he was looking for a man whose heritage was Greek and whose mother’s name was Zaimis, but whose citizenship was American.

Karras Zaimis was a CIA agent, formerly station chief in Salonika, now field expediter of the escape route. Vasili knew the agent’s face from several photographs he had removed from the KGB files. He peered through the bodies and the fog and the floodlights; he could not spot the man.

Taleniekov threaded his way past rushing fork-lifts and crews of complaining laborers toward the huge cargo warehouse. Inside the enormous enclosure, the light was dim, the wire-meshed floods too high in the ceiling to do much good. Beams of flashlights crisscrossed the containers: men were checking numbers. Vasili wondered briefly how much talent was in those boxcars. How much information was being taken out of Russia. Actually, not a great deal of either, he reminded himself. This was a minor escape route; more comfortable accommodations were provided for serious talent and significant bearers of intelligence data.

His slouch controlling his walk and his spectacles awkwardly in place, he excused himself past a Greek supervisor arguing with a Russian laborer. He wandered toward
the rear of the warehouse, past stacks of cartons and aisles blocked with freight dollies, studying the faces of those holding flashlights. He was becoming annoyed; he did not have the time to waste. Where was Zaimis? There had been
no
change of status; the freighter
was
the carrier, the agent
still
the conduit. He had read every report sent from Sevastopol; there had been no mention of the escape route whatsoever. Where
was
he?

Suddenly Taleniekov felt a shock of pain as the barrel of a gun was shoved viciously into his right kidney. Strong fingers gripped the loose cloth of his overcoat, crunching the flesh of his lower rib cage; he was propelled into a deserted aisle. Words were whispered harshly in English.

“I won’t bother speaking Greek, or trying to get through to you in Russian. I’m told your English is as good as anyone’s in Washington.”

“Conceivably better than most,” said Vasili through his teeth. “Zaimis?”

“Never heard of him. We thought you were out of Sevastopol.”

“I am. Where is Zaimis? I must speak with Zaimis.”

The American disregarded the question. “You’ve got balls, I’ll say that for you. There’s no one from KGB within ten blocks of here.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Very. We’ve got a flock of night owls out there. They see in the dark. They saw you. A violin case, Christ!”

“Do they look to the water?”

“Seagulls do that.”

“You’re very well organized, all you birds.”

“And you’re less bright than everyone says. What did you think you were doing? A little personal reconnaissance?”

Vasili felt the grip lessen on his ribs, then heard the muted sound of an object pulled out of rubber. A vial of serum. A
needle.
“Don’t!” he said firmly. “Don’t do that! Why do you think I’m here alone? I want to get out.”

“That’s just where you’re going. My guess would be an interrogation hospital somewhere in Virginia for about three years.”

“
No.
You don’t understand. I have to make contact with someone. But not
that
way.”

“Tell it to the nice doctors. They’ll listen to everything you say.”

“There’s no time!” There
was
no time. Taleniekov could feel the man’s weight shift; in seconds a needle would puncture his clothes and enter his flesh. It could not happen this way! He could not deal with Scofield officially!

None dare talk. The admissions would be catastrophic … for governments everywhere.
The Matarese.

If he could be destroyed in Moscow, the Americans would not think twice about silencing him.

Vasili raised his right shoulder—a gesture of pain from the gun barrel in his kidney. The gun was abruptly pressed further into his back—a reaction to the gesture. In that split instant, the pressure point of the hand holding; the gun was on the heel of the palm, not the index finger. Taleniekov’s movement was timed for it.

He spun to his left, his arm arcing up, crashing down over the American’s elbow, vicing it into his hip until the forearm cracked. He jabbed the fingers of his right hand into the man’s throat, bruising the windpipe. The gun fell to the floor, its clatter obscured by the din of the warehouse. Vasili picked it up and shoved the CIA agent against a boxcar container. In his pain, the American held the hypodermic needle limply in his left hand; it, too, dropped to the floor. His eyes were glazed, but not beyond cognizance.

“Now, you
listen
to me,” said Taleniekov, his face against Zaimis’ face. “I’ve known about ‘Operation Dardanelles’ for nearly seven months. I know you’re Zaimis. You deal in mediocre traffic; you’re not significant. But that’s not the reason I didn’t blow you apart. I thought one day you might be of use to me. That time has come. You can accept it or not.”