The Falstaff Enigma (15 page)

"Is he Jewish?"

"Unfortunately, no. His parents were Greek Orthodox who officially became atheists during the twenties. Ustinov himself is truly an atheist. In fact he seems to be, again unfortunately, a model communist. And why shouldn't he be? Between his ideology and his skill in physics, he lives well. His apartment in Moscow would be nice even in Chicago. It has two floors and a nice courtyard. He has a decent car and supposedly a nice collection of moderately priced impressionist art. He even has a small dacha on the Black Sea."

“Simple question: has anything happened to this guy since Govenin was killed?” Austin
asked. He realized he had picked up a spare pen and some paper and was taking notes.

"Nothing that I
know."

"Then you have a second confirmation that a leak exists within your immediate circle of Mossad."

Margolis pondered that comment for a moment. "That will have to be secondary."

“
So you are thinking the same thing I am?," Austin asked.

"I think so, Robert.
We are headed for Moscow to talk with Vladimir Ustinov."

Austin clapped his hands, breaking the sta
le air in front of him. “Great! I knew you would be better to work with than John Kemp. We think alike.” Austin had a big grin on this face. The jubilance yielded quickly to a grimmer reality: going to the Soviet Union as a spy, and a spy operating outside the sponsorship of any country, was going to be dangerous at best.

Austin began for
mulating a strategy for Moscow. "What can we use as leverage against Ustinov?" he asked.

"Good
question, but the answer is bad. The man is a workaholic who has no known mistresses, adheres to the official party line, and drinks only on social occasions. Also, he has many friends in both the military and the Politburo."

"What about his art work?"

"Nothing there,” Margolis responded. “Two of his pieces were given to him personally by Brezhnev after the introduction of the SS-18. The man is sacrosanct. What we do have to use against him is the knowledge he has about Vazhnevsky. All we can do is threaten to expose that to the right people in the KGB. Actually, I think he will be willing to tell us if we can convince him we are from the West. After all, that's why he told Govenin in the first place."

"There's no way.
He'll be thinking KGB from the word go."

"There's one way."
David opened his top desk drawer, reached in and pressed a button. On the bottom bookshelf, six feet to the right of Austin, a façade of four book bindings sprang open, revealing a small safe mounted in the wall. David Margolis walked over and had the safe open in seconds. He pulled out an oversized wallet and tossed it toward Austin, who made a fumbling catch. "That's our proof. It's Dr. Govenin's wallet and it includes his stamped Soviet passport." Austin looked through it briefly. David was still standing in front of the false bookshelf and he was uncomfortable having the wallet and the safe in the open. He clapped his hands and cupped them. Austin tossed the wallet back and David returned it to its safe haven.

"You told me that you had contact with the
CIA’s inspector general. I think you should call him so he knows you are alive," David said as he returned to his seat.

"You're right, that contact should be maintained.
However, there are two problems. One is that Wallace Carson knows by now that Kemp is dead, and two, he probably thinks I'm hiding out in Washington. Frankly, that's what I want him to believe. If I call him then we run the risk of a trace back to Israel, or at the least knowing that I'm outside the U.S."

"There is a way to call from this phone that would be traceable only to a random phone in the U
.S."

"How
?"

"We are able to recruit many Jews in the U
.S. for favors. They are known in Mossad as ‘sayanim’ – the Jews of the Diaspora that retain their loyalty to Israel. For that matter, we have many Gentiles who are eager to help us, especially the fundamentalists who think of the Jews as the chosen people. I guess they are covering both sides of the fence, you know?" David's question was purely rhetorical. He continued without a pause. "In this case, we have gentlemen in various phone companies who can perform the routing magic we need. Give me Carson's phone number."

Austin wrote the number on the corner of one of his note pages, ripped it from the sheet and handed it to David.
"But before I call we have to go over what you are going to say in case the NSA or the Soviets pick up the conversation."

The pair discussed the problem and arrived at a game plan. Each man's respect for the other was solidifying, an old trust rekindling, a trust that each knew would be tested in the future.

"Mr. Carson?"

"Yes.
Who's this?"

"This is Mr. Simpson.
Remember me?" Austin's question was unnecessary.

"I certainly do, Mr. Simpson, and I'm very happy to hear you are still involved in this project."

"Then you know that my partner was fired?"

"Yes, and that only confirmed our preliminary discussions. Now that the participants have changed, I want you to meet with me. How about lunch tomorrow?"

"I can't meet with you right now, Mr. Carson. I'm in the process of revising our original specifications and I'll be happy to contact you after I have completed that. Give me a couple of weeks."

"No, you can't do that.
You don't have the expertise to complete this revision. You are most valuable to me if you meet me. We can work on this together. I need your knowledge." The inspector general was pleading.

"Sorry, Mr. Carson.
You continue to work on your specs and I'll work on mine. Remember: two weeks minimum. But I will check in before then if I need your advice. Goodbye."

"But you
ca …”

Austin hung up the phone.
He had accomplished his goal of letting Carson know that he was alive and would not conform to Kemp's agreement to call Carson twice each day.

"What did he say?" asked David.

"He wanted me to come in. He obviously thinks I'll be killed on the outside."

"I understand his concern, but it's also possible that he's the mole inside the
CIA."

Austin gave David a look that universally asked if someone were joking.

"Okay, I admit it's not very likely," David stated in reply to the unspoken question. "But did he suspect that you weren't in the country?"

"No, I
’m sure he thinks I’m in Washington or New York.”

"Good."

"Enough about him,” Austin continued. “You need to find out what you can about Borskov so we can look him up. And I need a favor. Get me a weapon. I'm too damn scared without one."

"Done on both."
David rose from his seat and walked to the door. "I'll be back in twenty minutes with a gun, a report on Borskov, a pass for you to be able to walk around this building, and some lunch. Oh, and give me your hotel room key. I will send a gopher to get your things."

"As long as
it's someone you trust."

David thought for a moment.
"Forget it. We'll both go by later this afternoon after we get our Soviet documents prepared. Until we leave, you will remain Mr. Taylor."

"
Okay."

David Margolis walked out.

"How was that?" asked David after Austin had quickly eaten his Mossad-supplied snack.

"Pretty good.
Creamy. What do you call that dip?" replied Austin.

"Tofutt
i.” David placed his briefcase on the table, fumbled with its lock, opened the leather top and pulled out an lD card with a shirt-pocket clip on it. "This will allow you some freedom within the building, although I think you should stay out of sight as much as possible."

"Agreed.
Do you have something else for me in there?"

"
I was getting to that." David pulled an automatic pistol from his briefcase. He handed it to Austin. "It's no Uzi, but it should do."

Aust
in examined the weapon. "Walther P-38, overall length: 8.6 inches; barrel length: 4.9 inches; weight: 34 ounces; magazine capacity: eight rounds; caliber: 9 millimeter Parabellum, known in the West German Army as the ‘P1’." Austin lifted the gun into the air with his right hand and pulled the slide back with his left. A round popped up from the magazine and into the chamber. He returned the slide to its original position. The weapon was now ready to discharge its lethal payload.

"I see you
’ve learned the practical as well as the economical side of your business," David said, obviously impressed.

"I spent about half of my fi
rst year with the DIA flying around the world examining various Soviet bloc weaponry obtained through capture, purchase, defection, change of government, or outright theft. Part of that included a month at Fort Bragg learning about the small arms of both sides with the aid of an expert, if somewhat less than eloquent, Green Beret sergeant. I learned a hell of a lot about weapons and how to use them." Austin checked the safety to make sure it was on and placed the gun on the table.

"That reminds me.
Are you still into karate?" Margolis asked.

Austin expelled a short laugh.
"You remembered the computer show I went to with you. Do you remember the karate match I tried to get you to go to?"

David shrugged his shoulders slightly.
He didn't really remember.

Austin continued, "Well, you wouldn't go.
I think you called it childish nonsense at the time. Anyway, the answer to your question is yes and no. I still try to keep myself in shape, but I haven't been to a dojo in about two years."

"Dojo?"

"A karate school."

"How high did you get?"

"Third degree black belt."

David couldn’t contain his joy. “I’m becoming very happy that you’re my partner in
this. Now enough on the flattery." David pulled a file from his briefcase. "This is the info I was able to get on Anatoly Borskov. It gives us a solid base to go on and, luckily, his home address."

Austin spent fifteen minutes reading the nine-page computer printout. It reconfirmed what John Kemp had learned from his computer programmer friend in the middle of Arlington National Cemetery. In addition, the report gave a heavily detailed history of Borskov's life. His record was exemplary and his promotions had apparently come on the basis of merit rather than patronage.
The report also detailed the many love affairs of Svetlana Borskov, the KGB officer's infertile wife. Again, no details were available about Borskov's activities over the past six months.

"What about using these affairs of his wife to get to him?" Austin
asked.

"You haven't read far enough yet.
He is kept well informed on his wife's activities. If he weren’t, he would have been through long ago. The KGB is expert at keeping its own out of compromising situations. On top of that, KGB agents always visit her lovers to make it clear that going public would mean a one-way trip to the nearest mental institution."

"So much for that," said Austin with a yawn.

"Your eyes look bad. How much sleep did you get last night?" Margolis queried.

"Not enough.
Why don't we go by my hotel and afterwards I'll get some sleep."

"Okay, let's go."
Both men rose to leave the room. Austin picked up the Walther P-38 and tucked it into his waistband.

"That's it up ahead on the left," said Austin, pointing to his inn.
David guided the automobile to the curb on the right side and parked. Both men wore a jacket. For David, it was simply a part of the suit he had worn to work that day, but for Austin the coat was borrowed and at least a size too large. But Austin's ridiculous sport coat, as well as David’s suit coat, had its function. Each hid an Uzi submachine gun. David obtained the weapons to help offset the risk of going out without any other Mossad agents as back up. Submachine guns or not, it was a risk David would rather not have taken, but he had to keep Robert Austin a secret within Mossad.

Both men crossed the street and stopped just outside the main door of the family-run hotel.

"Where is your room?" asked David.

"Room four on the second floor.
The stairs are straight down the hall after we walk in."

"G
ive me your key.”

Austin handed his key to David.
"Why?"

"Now stay here with your back to the wall and your finger on the trigger.
Give me two minutes, then come up to the room. If you see anyone headed for you out here then just come up." The street was empty, but why not? It was three in the afternoon and the temperature was nudging triple digits. Nobody in his right mind would be on the streets this day, much less someone in a coat. "Okay?"

Austin nodded and backed against the wall. He was just able to get his entire body into the sliver of shadow cast by the
two-story building. The shadow wasn't enough to ebb the sweat that broke out, but it sure beat being in the sunlight.

David Margolis entered the miniature lobby.
He headed directly for the stairwell with a deliberate but paced stride. He had found over the years that there was a certain pace, not too slow or too fast, that, when done fluidly, attracted the least attention. To his left as he quickly passed through the lobby he saw only one person, a man in a business suit seated on an old couch. Just before he disappeared down the hallway leading to the stairwell, David turned his head without breaking stride to look at the man. The man was raising a newspaper to cover his face and David got only an instant's glimpse of the face.
Who was that?
Had he ever seen that face before, or was his imagination dictating the situation? For a moment David thought of returning to confront the man but he dismissed the idea. The man looked completely American; his suit was straight from Manhattan.

David reached the front door of room number four.
He brought the Uzi out from under his coat with his right hand and quietly unlocked the door with his left hand. With a single action he threw the door open and scanned the room with his eyes, the muzzle of the weapon mimicking the trail of his sight. The room was empty. David entered and checked the bathroom. Again, only empty space. He returned to the door and closed it. He decided to check the room for bombs while waiting for Robert. He knew he would find none, but he had to do something constructive.

Robert had waited three and a half minutes when he headed into the small lobby.
He lacked David's experience and walked quickly toward the stairwell, not noticing the man in the lobby. He had relaxed since teaming up with his new partner.

The CIA agent recognized Austin immediately.

David heard Austin's steps as the analyst departed the stairs and began the short journey to room four. The Mossad officer went to the door and opened it only an inch. Austin was halfway to the room but David's eyes were looking beyond the analyst's frame. On the wall behind the stairwell a shadow was ascending. Someone was climbing the stairs!
A man. American
. The face! David knew the face – a CIA operative named Michael Fischer.

Austin was only three feet from the door when he saw a slice of David's b
ody through the narrow opening. David whispered his commands quickly: "Stand right there. Keep your back to the stairs." David closed the door and strained to pick up every sound.

Austin froze, overruling his first reaction to run down the
hall. He grabbed the pistol grip of the Uzi under his coat. He briefly thought of breaking open the door; David could be in trouble. Then he heard steps behind him.

The CIA agent began pulling a silenced automatic pistol from his shoulder holster as he closed the range on his
target. Only a few more feet and he could take out the swine with one bullet.

David pulled the door open and extended his right arm with the Uzi rising to horizontal as Austin ducked.
The barrel of the weapon was pointed at the CIA agent's chest. "Put your gun on the floor. Now." Michael Fischer lowered the gun to his side. David continued, "If I squeeze this trigger, I won't let up until all forty rounds have been fired." Austin was now down on one knee and had his Uzi drawn and leveled squarely on the CIA agent. Fischer put his gun on the floor.

"Now step into the room,"
David commanded. Fischer obeyed, his arms raised slightly to each side. Austin walked around the man and picked up his silenced weapon. He followed the agent into the room.

"I thought I recognized you when you walked in, Margolis,"
Fischer said. "This is a Company matter. You would be wise to turn him over to me."

Austin covered the agent as David pushed him against a
wall. Fischer assumed a spread-eagle position without any verbal prompting. David's search revealed another small pistol in the man's waistband and some cash in his pocket. Fischer carried no identification.

"You seem to have forgotten your wallet, Mr. Fischer," said
David as the agent turned around.

"You do your homework, Mr. Margolis, but you are
dead wrong. You are involved in a situation that is beyond you.”

"
Why did you come after him?"

"I'm sure you know, so just give him to me before you condemn yourself."

"I don't know. Tell me."

"That bastard's gone sour. His picture has gone out to every Company station worldwide."

Austin recoiled in shock. David turned to him and said, "Don't be surprised. It was only the next logical step after Kemp had been labeled as a runner."