The Falstaff Enigma (25 page)

Finding Yuri Savitsky had not been difficult. Sorovin's network had succeeded in removing Savitsky's fingerprints from the KGB computer files, but the man was nevertheless a colonel in the GRU. As a result, he had to have a very complete, very thorough file in the central file room inside KGB headquarters. And Anatoly Borskov, as head of the Seventh Directorate, Moscow District, was one of only four men inside the KGB hierarchy to have unquestioned authority to retrieve the file on any KGB or military officer, agent or operative, past or present, on his signature only.

Nik
olai sat in the car with Austin. They were a block away from Savitsky's apartment building, which itself was a block away from the Kuzminki stop of the Planernaya-Zhdanovskaya metro line. Borskov gave strict orders not to get close to the building. Savitsky, unlike Sorovin, was a master in the art of surveillance, and in detecting surveillance. Any attempt to listen in represented an unacceptable risk. Exposure would mean that their quarry would disappear instantly, leaving them at square one. Too, Borskov feared that the GRU colonel may have several KGB agents for protection.

"What time is it?" Nikolai
asked.

"Twenty-fifteen," replied the analyst, raising the binoculars back to their useful
position again. He had a clear view of the front of the building. "We have been here two hours and I still haven’t seen anyone other than Savitsky himself and a few older people."

"They would probably be inside."

"Nobody was with him when he came home."

"Good, then maybe he has no guards."
Nikolai bit into a piece of bread with some meat on top that Austin did not recognize. "Would you like some?" he asked, his speech slurred by a mouthful of food.

“What is it?'

"Shashlik." He swallowed. "Grilled lamb." He offered it to the American.

Austin took a small
bite. "Not too bad."

"There's more in the bag."

Ten minutes passed as the men enjoyed a dinner that would have been returned if served in a restaurant, but was delicious under the current circumstances. It reminded Robert of how a dry sandwich became unbeatable when eaten on an overnight camping trip during his youth.

"Is it true that the news media is completely free in your country?"

"Excuse me?"

"Are your
newspapers free like they say?"

"Completely.
There are hundreds of newspapers and television stations and they can report anything they wish. In fact, the press in America even brought down the administration of Richard Nixon.”

Nikolai shook his head. "I can't understand. It would only serve to circulate false rumors that weaken the State."

"But if the State can’t stand up to the scrutiny of truth then the State shouldn't stand at all."

"The State is based on a Truth, on a set of ideas accepted as just and correct."

"How did those ideas come into being?" Austin asked his communist partner.

"They developed over time."

"They evolved?"

"Yes. They evolved."

"But evolution never ceases and the suppression of the exchange of ideas is an attempt to deny the inevitable."

"But …”

The KGB agent turned his head away from Austin and exhaled in exasperation. Few Russians were able to debate successfully against Westerners because they could rarely practice. Political debates were unknown. Nikolai was reduced to platitudes. "The State must control information for the benefit of the whole."

"The State and the whole are one and they are both just the sum of all individuals. When you go beyond the individual, you degenerate immediately to the imposition of one's will over another.
Once that imposition takes place, then the one doing the imposing becomes unequal to the other by definition and, in fact, greater than the other. Master and slave."

"I don't understand."

Austin took a breath to speak again. He was interrupted. "Nevsky dva, Nevsky dva." The voice was electronic. Nikolai grabbed the microphone between the two small front seats. "Nevsky dva, here."

"Return immediately."

"Understood."

Borskov stood
in front of a small black board. A map of Savitsky's street and building was crudely drawn on it. "It is understood, then," said the colonel. "When Colonel Savitsky walks to the metro this morning, we will take him."

By 5:30 in
the morning, they were in place. Nikolai and David waited in the lobby of a building a few doors down from Savitsky's building. Their target had to walk past that spot to get to the Moscow subway. Savitsky always used it. The two men carried silencer-equipped pistols. Austin and Borskov waited in a car parked across the street and a few doors down in the opposite direction of the metro. Borskov had a sharpshooter on the roof of the building across from Savitsky's apartment and two men covering the rear alley. The last three men were ignorant of their prey, but would follow Borskov's orders to the letter. They would never need to know what they were really doing.

As always, the wait was close to unbearable.
Time stretched to its limit. The tension level was a constant peak; they did not know when their target usually left for work. The disaster of their prior attempt to arrest Sorovin played on everyone’s mind. They could not fail again.

Two hours had passed and still no one had been seen on the street.

The activity was sudden. "Car on the street," came the voice from the unseen sharpshooter perched high above the stage.

"I see him. Check your weapons," replied Borskov into his collar transmitter. He could see the car in his side view mirror. "Alley: report."

"Clear."

The car passed the
colonel and his American ally. It was a small four-door Izh 412 with two men occupying the front seats. The car stopped in front of Savitsky's apartment and the passenger got out quickly and headed into the lobby.

"Start your engine, Andrei,"
Borskov ordered, using aliases because of the other KGB agents involved. He bowed his head slightly and spoke into his collar. "This is it. Looks like he is being picked up today. We can’t wait. Everyone prepare. Point," continued Borskov, speaking to the sharpshooter, "target the driver and fire on my command. Alley: prepare to come in. Doorway: take out passenger on my command to Point." David was just outside the door of his building, hiding behind a large column that obscured him from the view of the car in front of Savitsky's building. He drew his pistol and listened for what the car was doing.

Two men emerged from the building. Borskov had his binoculars trained on t
he doorway and saw just enough. “Target is now in the car. In the back seat.”

The car pulled away from the curb quickly.
The driver had obviously floored the engine, but its four cylinders performed poorly against the weight of three men. It gradually attained speed. It was almost in front of David's post.

"Point: fire,
fire."

No one heard th
e silenced explosion, but the 7.62 mm round left the barrel of the SKS rifle at about 2,500 feet per second. It produced a sonic “crack” as it travelled to its target. It bore through the roof of the car effortlessly, with only a minute amount of energy stolen. The bullet hit home, tearing into the left shoulder of the driver and destroying his lung before its enormous energy was spent.

The car swerved to the left and slammed into a parked auto. It came to rest across the
street and a little ahead of the position called "Doorway."

David wasn't sure whether Borskov had given him the word, but he ran from his hideaway, Nikolai close behind. The Mossad agent saw the movement of a youthful m
an in the car's passenger seat. David fired two shots on the run. The first bullet shattered the front windshield, which had survived the crash intact. The second bullet had no apparent effect.

Nikolai saw it. A huge suppressor emerged from the passenger window. He knew that it was the size necessary to keep a sub machinegun quiet.
He stopped. "David: roll."

The sickening spits erupted. David left his feet as he heard several bullets slice through the air over his head. The man in the car was wild; the crash had no doubt affected
him. Nikolai went to one knee and leveled his pistol. He noticed the roof of the car move as the sub machinegun fell silent. What had just happened did not reach his consciousness. He fired five times.

David stood up
and moved slowly toward the car. The man in the passenger seat was slumped forward, blood covering his head. The Israeli reached the car. It was obvious that the two men in front were dead. He looked in back. It was definitely Yuri Savitsky. He was dead, a bullet hole in his side. It was the result of Nikolai's salvo.

"He's dead," said David as Nikolai reached the immobilized automobile.
His words were calm, businesslike. He leaned into the car and felt through the pockets of the three dead men, removing everything he found. He placed the weapons underneath the front seat and, finally, grabbed the briefcase at the feet of the GRU colonel's corpse. He then walked to the car where Austin and Borskov sat, unwilling to add to the commotion on the street.

"These men must not be identified.
It must be an auto accident and nothing more." David heard only these last two sentences of Borskov's conversation with Peter Gushkin over the radio. Once again, the militiaman's loyalty to Borskov would prove invaluable. The colonel returned the microphone to the cradle and turned his face toward the Mossad agent. "He's dead?''

"Yes.
One of Nikolai's bullets got him.” David glanced quickly at Borskov's trusted subordinate, who was still next to the destroyed automobile. He pointed at his collar microphone.

"Both of our systems are off," the
colonel replied.

"The bastard knew we were waiting
," declared David tersely.

"Obviously,
" the colonel said.

"Two for two and I'm having ser
ious doubts about our security,” David continued.

"Again, obvious."

"Is your man completely above reproach, colonel?" David was referring to Nikolai.

"I would be very surp
rised if I were wrong about him. But we will talk about it later. We have to go through Savitsky's room right now." Borskov turned on his collar transmitter. "Point: terminate your assignment. This is a black flag for discussion purposes.” The simple code meant that the sharpshooter was to treat this morning as if it had never occurred. "Alley: cover the lobby, we are coming in."

The apartment had
somber as its underlying tone. Hues of gray formed the predominant theme. The place looked dormant; only an open newspaper on the dining room table and a dirty teacup in the sink gave any clue of recent occupancy. The bedroom wall was covered with photographs: his wife, his four children, his two grandchildren. But the man had been in solitude; his wife had died of cancer six years before.

The search of Yuri Savitsky's apartment turned up two pistols and several electronic coun
ter-surveillance devices but, just as Borskov had predicted, nothing of value. Whatever clue Savitsky could give them would be found in his briefcase.

"Forget it," said Borskov. "There's nothing here." All four men gathered by the front door. "Andrei, I want you and Mikhail to return to my home and pack up your things. Tell nothing to my wif
e, but we will have to move out. After this, I don't think Sorovin and his group will be able to ignore us."

Austin blinked several times. He didn't notice that this was a new reaction to the discomfort he felt. He thought of the possibility of Borskov becoming an outcast in his own country. They would be marked. Death, or worse, would become only a matter of time. He shook the thought from his head, concentrating instead on what needed to be done.

"Nikolai and I must go by my office to open this briefcase," continued the colonel. "I have to X-ray this case first."

"What if he has film in there?" David
asked, not sure why he brought up such an obscure point.

"I don't know why he would, but it is a risk we have to take. This could easily be booby-trapped."

David looked at the floor. "I'm sorry. Stupid point." His nerves were frayed.

"We will meet you at my home in one hour."

“Where is my wife?” asked Borskov as he walked through his flat.

"She was gone when we arrived," the analyst
responded.

"Probably shopping," said the
colonel under his breath.

"What did you find in the briefcase?"
Austin asked.

"We only unlocked it, we didn't open the case."

Borskov placed the briefcase on the kitchen table. The three other men sat around the table. "Nikolai, sweep the flat,” commanded the colonel.

"Yes, sir." The KGB agent immediately stood and walked into the living room. He picked up the small electronic box that miraculously found unseen listening devices. His search was negative. He returned to the table.

Colonel Anatoly Borskov opened the briefcase of his late GRU counterpart. The X-rays had revealed no bomb, no booby-trap, only a very small pistol in the corner. The briefcase itself was especially elegant by Soviet standards. It was covered in black leather and the metal latches that secured it were plated in gold. The interior was lined in the finest tanned leather. The smell of leather was strong. The case was new, probably purchased during a recent trip into Western Europe. It reminded Borskov of the only time he had been on the other side of the Iron Curtain, on a "diplomatic" visit to Rome. It had been ten years before and the Communist Party in Italy was on the verge of gaining power for the first time. The Party was openly courting its ties with Moscow and a delegation of high ranking Soviet officials was required. Borskov had been in Moscow and one of his friends who was scheduled to go became ill. The friend arranged for the then-Captain Anatoly Borskov to go in his place. Borskov acted as the KGB figurehead. He had been told to sightsee for the week he was in Rome. He never met with anyone.

It had not been until the third day that he realized that a host of CIA operatives were following him all over Rome. He had been nothing but a decoy. Yet it was worth it, he told himself at the time. The city had been beautiful. He had been amazed at the freedom everyone had and how skimpily the women were dressed. He had also been amazed at the open demonstrations against the government, in the midst of wealth such as he had never seen in his own country.

From the contents of the briefcase one would think it belonged to a London banker. There were several articles cut out of the London Times and the Wall Street Journal dealing with financial matters. Most were either about gold or about the state of the American financial industry. There were two bankbooks, one for a London bank and one for a bank in Washington, DC. A set of keys occupied a specially made pocket while another held a Texas Instruments "Business Analyst" calculator. The next item was a small address book which Borskov handed to Austin to examine. Underneath the address book were several brochures on gold and foreign exchange trading. They were all issued by a company named "Strouble & Co." The analyst had never heard of it.

The
colonel pulled out more paper. There were internal memoranda from "Strouble & Co." and foreign exchange charts showing the fluctuating paths of various currencies during May and the first few days of June. Borskov looked into the leather flap designed to carry letters and letter-sized documents. He found two sets of traveler's checks, one consisting of ten $100 checks and the other containing ten £100 checks. Each bore a signature that was not legible. He also found a large number of business cards for one "John Nevin, Senior Vice President, Strouble & Co., Foreign Exchange and Gold Dealers, New York, Washington & London."

"Savitsky had quite a cover," Borskov
said. He handed a card to each of the other men. "Unfortunately, nothing in here tells us what his real job was." The colonel pulled out the last items: one Aeroflot ticket to Montreal and one Air Canada ticket to Washington, DC. They were dated June 15 and June 16, respectively – he had planned to leave today.

Austin leaned back in his seat while the others discussed what Savits
ky's role in the coup had been. The trio came up with many theories in the ten minutes during which Austin was silent.

"Wait," interrupted the analyst.
The excitement in his voice cut through the conversation easily. Immediately the trio were silent. "Colonel, you of course remember the CIA spy that we told you about initially?"

"Yes. I found it unlikely."

"But still possible. What if Savitsky were the liaison between Sorovin and his group and the mole? Why else would Savitsky being flying to Washington right now? We know he is part of this coup and we know that we are down to the critical days."

"It
’s plausible," replied Borskov.

"Well, let's assume there is a mole," Austin
continued. "He would have been the one responsible for getting me sent to Ankara because I noticed the disappearance of Vazhnevsky. That, in turn, means that he would be a part of the coup. Given that, and the fact that we know Savitsky was also in the 'Falstaff' group, then Savitsky is the logical person to be the mole's contact. He was the liaison."

"It
’s plausible," repeated the colonel, not sure of where the analyst was headed. "Continue." He punctuated the command by sweeping the air with his right arm, in effect giving Austin license to proceed in any direction.

"It's probable that the mole would have no direct communication link into the Sov
iet Union. In fact, that is safely assumed because such a link would be easily picked up by one side or another. This means that Savitsky would be his only link with what is happening within the Falstaff group and, therefore, Savitsky must have met regularly with the man. It's also likely that they did not maintain prearranged times to meet since it would be difficult for Savitsky to keep control over his timetable and since any reoccurring pattern would quickly draw suspicion to someone working in the CIA or the Defense Intelligence Agency. As a result, Savitsky probably called the spy when he arrived in Washington.

"What if
we could get in touch with him? We could spook him out and he would return to Moscow. When he does, we follow him to his boss."

"Even if you could get this unknown man to run, how do you ever get in touch with him?" asked David.

"With this." Austin held up the telephone book and lowered it back to the table. He began to read. "Mr. John Johnson. Phone number 555-7821. See key for continuation."

"I don't understand," Borskov
said.

"John Johnson is the American equivalent of Ivan Chekov," replied Austin. "It is a common alias."

"Robert, that's hardly a basis for such a conclusion," David said in an exasperated tone.

"This is the only name in the book without an address and occupation and I also happen to recognize the first three digits of this phone number." Austin interjected an unappreciated dramatic pause. "They belong to the Defense Intelligence Agency's central administration
building known as 'alpha alpha.’ Our spy is in the DIA, not the CIA."

"Yes," David
said in an excited voice. "It starts to come together. It had to be someone in the DIA who found out about what you noticed in the May Day films and then was able to make up some story to get the CIA to send you to Ankara."

"What about the 'key' that it mentions?" Nikolai
asked.

"I think it is on the last page." Austin thumbed through the small book until he found what he wanted.
"This is it: The square root of 5625." He grabbed the calculator that Borskov had removed from the briefcase and placed it on the table. It took only a few seconds to punch in the numbers. "The square root of 5625 is 75. I would bet that this is the key."

"Very good, Robert, but I fear that this is a futile exercise," Borskov
said.

"Why?"

"Before I answer  this, I wish to speak with David alone." The Mossad agent tensed. He was a man with a guilty conscience. But the KGB colonel certainly had to have something else on his mind. David relaxed only slightly. Had he sensed something in Borskov's voice? "Where shall we go?" David asked.

"In here," replied the colonel as he stood and headed into his bedroom. The Mossad agent followed somewhat reluctantly, his legs now heavier than only moments before. Borskov closed the door, effectively isolating the pair.

"You are a highly skilled professional, David," exclaimed Borskov, before Margolis had a chance to situate himself. "I'm sorry, please have a seat. I just wanted to ask you what you thought of our encounters with Mr. Sorovin and Mr. Savitsky."

The question was a pleasant surprise to David.
"Damned sloppy. Frankly, I expected more from your men." David paused briefly and shook his head. "I have no reason to throw stones; I screwed up in my own backyard and it cost four lives. This is the first time in my life that I have felt that I'm up against someone better than I am."

"You know what I'm talking about," replied Borskov in an impatient voice.

"Yes, I know. Without question we have a serious security problem. If you want me to sum up my opinion, then I would say that if you were in agreement, I would go out there and kill Nikolai right now."

"Why are you so sure?"

"Simple elimination. I know beyond doubt that it's not myself or Robert and there is no scenario I can remotely dream up that would sensibly fit you into that slot. On the other hand, Nikolai makes sense on every count. Any doubt I had was ended when he shot Savitsky. The evidence is conclusive."

"How did he warn Sorovin? Weren't you with him for the four or five hours before that?"

"Yes, but he must have warned Sorovin before we started our surveillance."

"I think that Leonid Sorovin was warned just before I arrived at the surveillance room. Nikolai said that Sorovin got a phone call about fifteen minutes before I arrived and I'm sure that is when he was warn
ed. You yourself first mentioned the possibility of that call being a warning. Otherwise, he would have left earlier, before we ever set up, thereby avoiding having to kill Arkady."

"I think you're str
etching," replied David flatly. He was positive of his viewpoint and positive that Borskov was only trying to suppress an obvious reality. "Assuming that the phone call was indeed the warning, there are many explanations, not the least of which would be to provide an alibi for Nikolai."

"You said earlier that you think it's Nikolai because he is the only one who is logical." David nodded slowly. "But you have wrongly discounted another individual who has had the knowledge, motive, and opportunity to be our informant." Now Margolis was the one suppressing the obvious. He simply gave Borskov a blank look.

The colonel cleared his throat, his hand quivering slightly. He continued. "This is very difficult for me, but I must ask you if you have had sex with my wife."

David stood and turned away from Borskov. The KGB professional knew instantly that his accusation was justified. David searched for a reply. "I can't believe you are accusing your wife of being this informant. You're crazy!"

"That's not an answer to my question. Did you sleep with my wife or not? A simple yes or no will do."

David felt a weight suddenly lift from his shoulders and just as suddenly crash down on him again. His throat was instantly dry, the moisture going right to his palms. He was not used to being caught and confronted and his moral justification seemed to fade into the flimsy rationalization it really was. He realized for the first time that his act had been pure lust – nothing more, nothing less. "Yes, Goddamn it, yes." The words were slow and faint. He felt like a defeated man.

"Unfortunately, you are but one of many and you should not scold yourself too harshly. My wife is a very beautiful woman. She married me twenty years ago because I was successful and I married her because she was a trophy that I could hold around my arm, a symbol that proved my success. There was no love – there was never any love – at least not in any conventional sense. There has been only resentment on her part, resentment that I stole her youth.

"I tried to fight it for the first five years by buying her whatever
I could get my hands on. I would be warned by my colleagues that my spending on her was conspicuous and embarrassing and would hurt my career, but I didn't care.

"I remember when I first realized that my wife was cheating." Borskov was detached; he had entered into a monologue written by twenty years of frustration. "We had been married less than a year when a good friend in the KGB came to me with a story and photographs for proof. He figured that if it went on without my knowledge then I was finished. Knowledge is, after all, power.

"After those first five years, I realized that the harder I tried, the greater was her resentment. So I became cold and aloof. I was determined that whatever she did, she wouldn't hurt my career."

The KGB colonel finally had a sounding board and he didn't know when to stop. "I guess I was never much of a lover. Now she obliges my infrequent wishes for sexual gratification with all the passion of a prostitute."

"I'm sorry." David's voice was still very quiet, but the emotion was genuine. He felt an empathy for this man, although he was not exactly sure why. Then he remembered the accusation of only moments before. "You didn't reply to my earlier question. Why do you suspect your wife?"