The Falstaff Enigma (31 page)

"When I call, a machine asks what information I want and then I push the app
ropriate number.” Austin wasn't sure what the Russian was driving at.

"You were convinced that the square root of 5625 had something to do with this. Why don't you try punching in 75 when the machine asks for your choice?" Nikolai picked up Savitsky's telephone book and began leafing through it.

"Hmmm. Maybe," said Austin. "It's a long shot." His enthusiasm was dampened by the fact that he had not thought of it first. Once again he dialed the company's toll free phone number. He watched Nikolai pick up a black pen and start what appeared to be doodling on a scrap sheet of paper. The woman’s taped voice came on the line. Austin waited until the tape was almost over and pressed the numbers seven and five. The woman’s voice continued, finishing the last words of her repetitive speech. He pushed the two numbers again. Nothing.

To make sure the telephone company's computer was still receptive, he pressed the number one. The computer was working, the closing prices of gold again repeated into Austin's ear. He hung up. "It's useless. We are going to need to use DIA computers somehow."

Nikolai did not hear the analyst's words. The scratch paper in front of him was quickly filling. Part of the sheet had numbers on it, part of it contained Cyrillic writing, and the rest was full of geometric doodles, the kind psychiatrists love to analyze. "Robert, what if you spell the base number out?"

"What?"

"Here, look." Nikolai handed Austin the scratch sheet, his index finger bouncing up and down on the writing he wanted Austin to focus on. The American took the paper and read the Russian words: fifty six twenty five.

"Do you have your calculator?" asked the KGB agent as he rose to his feet, adrenalin giving him a youthful bounciness.

Austin reached into his bag and pulled out his calculator, handing it to Nikolai. The Russian entered the number 506205 and pressed the square root function. He shook his head. The number on the display was 711.4808501. He cleared the machine and entered the number 50625. He pressed the square root key and a broad smile came to his lips. The display said 225. "Look." He sat down next to the analyst and pressed the square key, transforming the display to its original number: 50625. "We start with fifty six twenty-five," he said as his right index finger followed along the display to make sure that Austin got the point. "And then..." The Russian pressed the square root key and 225 popped into the display. He leaned sideways, creating distance between himself and Austin. ''Well?"

"Hell, I’ll try anything at this point." Austin dialed the lengthy number one more time. At the point where he was to press the number two to get silver prices, he pressed two, two and five in rapid succession. The woman's voice stopped. Several seconds of silence followed.
The tape with the man's voice must be rewinding.

A ring
. Austin bounced on the bed, moving his body closer to the telephone base, suddenly protecting the two clear plastic nodules that would end this phone call if depressed. He raised his index finger across his puckered lips in the universal signal of silence. Nikolai moved quickly, placing a blank sheet of paper and the black pen at Austin's disposal.

"Alpha alpha." It was a man's voice but very different from the one Austin had been expecting. "Communication code
hotellima-kilo-five-three-eight. This is a secure transmission source. Enter your destination code now."

The analyst’s heart started racing, the adrenalin surge making his hands shake slightly. He searched frantically for the sheet of paper he had used earlier. It was right in front of him but he could not focus his mind properly.

"Please enter your destination code now or terminate transmission.” The unseen communications officer was not a patient man.

Austin saw it. On the sheet was the number from Savitsky's book for John Johnson. He pressed the numbers seven, eight, two and one. Again there was silence followed by a brief ring.

"Alpha, alpha, Corporal Suarez speaking."

Austin had to clear his throat. “John Johnson, please.”

"Stand by tor clearance." Austin was put on hold. He suddenly thought about the possibility of tracing this call back to the hotel. It would mean leaving immediately, but it was too late to hang up. This would be a live performance with no rehearsals.

A woman came on the line. “Mr. Johnson’s line. May I help you?”

"Is Mr. Johnson in?"

"May I tell
him who's calling?"

"John Nevin."

"Please hold." There was an immediate ring followed by two clicking sounds.

"Yes." The voice was confident and strong, like that of a newscaster.

"Mr. Johnson?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Is this line totally secured and private?"

The man on the other end knew that it wasn't Yuri Savitsky on the line. His only options were to play along or hang up. The latter was not a course of action that left much promise of longevity. The man had to find out more about this sudden threat to his survival
. “Yes."

"I'm
calling on behalf of Mr. Nevin. Unfortunately your investments have recently soured."

"I thought gold was performing well," replied the man, his voice offering no trace of concern, no hint that a major disruption had occurred in the orderly world he had so painfully created. He wanted to throw this intruder off balance, to test his ability to maintain an even keel.

"You are short the market, Mr. Johnson." Austin's years on Wall Street gave him an instant response to the man's probe. "You must take immediate action to correct this situation. You need to come in at 9 a.m. tomorrow and deposit three thousand into your margin account. Can you make it?" Austin was very good. An uninvited listener would have no idea the call was not legitimate.

The man quickly
ran scenarios through his mind. He knew the danger he was in, but he could not be sure what response was appropriate until he learned more. From his position he could help shape the future of mankind. He could play a key role in overthrowing the old capitalist order, a dream he had held since his days as a Rhodes Scholar at Oxford. He relished his current position and he would take great risk to sustain it. "I will be there. Will Nevin be in?"

"No. He is vacationing up north. Do you
know the address?"

"Yes, I know the address. Whom should I ask for?"

"Joseph Cunningham," replied Austin, using the name of a childhood friend who loved to tell lies. "See you tomorrow."

"Right."

Anatoly Borskov opened the passenger side door and slowly eased his large frame into the small seat. The sun shone brightly on the black sedan. It was a rare day in Moscow, cloudless and hot. From the back seat David could see heat waves rising more than an inch off the hood. The dark interior vinyl only amplified the sensation. David found himself pushing on the window crank, trying in vain to force it to open wider.

The car's shock absorbers strained as the full weight of the fat KGB commander came to rest. "It's either too cold or too hot," Borskov
said, talking to no one in particular. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face. It was a losing battle. He turned to the young man in the driver's seat and handed him a five-ruble note. "Go buy some tea for me." Borskov was not in the habit of being courteous to his underlings. He knew his request would be quickly and quietly obeyed. "Would you like something?" he asked David, not able to turn his head all the way around to see the Israeli spy.

"If you can find Coke or Pepsi then I will have that. If not, then tea will do."
Margolis aimed his reply at the driver.

"Yes, sir," replied the young man. It was directed to Borskov; he was not concerned with the man in the back seat. “It’s early,” the driver pointed out defensively.

“Try,” was all Borskov replied.

The driver opened the door and disappeared down the street.

"Captain Slava Shetshikov," said Borskov, revealing the true intention of his order to the car’s driver. "Assigned to the command regiment of the Byelorussian Military District. He is highly educated and related to a man who was very powerful under Josef Stalin. He is considered a trusted aide of Marshal Anton Timolenko."

"Timolenko," repeated David. "Isn't he in charge of Soviet forces in East Germany?"

"Good memory. He was until recently. About a year ago he tried to provoke an incident along the German border. Some say he was only a small step from invading West Germany. I guess they were right. He didn't succeed. He lost his command and was put in charge of the Byelorussian District. He is known to shout and threaten his subordinates."

David's thoughts went immediately to the phone call the previous day. The screaming, the veiled threats, they were the hallmark of a resurrected
marshal. "That was him on the phone."

"Yes, David. That had to be Timolenko. And for the time being that information must remain between us."

David Margolis felt a relief he had not known in weeks. He finally had a tangible adversary, someone who could be studied and watched. More important, they could now plan a course of action instead of merely reacting to each new event. It was in planning and subsequent execution that David's logical mind worked best. He had also felt more at ease with the KGB colonel. The magnitude of his wife's betrayal seemed to make David's act insignificant. He had become only another of her victims, a category he shared with the colonel. "Do we still take Shetshikov?"

“Yes. He should provide us with good information and his disappearance will throw the
marshal into disarray.”

"So it looks like Nikolai and Robert's tr
ip is meaningless."

"We shall see."

The car door opened and the young KGB agent bent over and handed a paper cup full of tea to Borskov and another to Margolis. "I'm sorry, there was no cola," he said as he climbed into the sedan. David did not really care what beverage he drank; he had actually wanted something cold. As with most of Europe, refrigerated beverages were very rare and ice cubes were almost unheard of – much less iced tea. But he was relieved to find out that the tea at least was not heated.

The three men spent the
next eleven minutes in silence. Borskov and the Israeli thought out the implications of what they had just learned. The young driver wondered whether he was impressing the old man next to him.

Two hundred meters down the road a single white two-door sedan was parked.
A nervous KGB agent – one of the pair that found the Sorovin shoot-out scene the day earlier – occupied the driver's seat. He was chosen because his lean, six-foot frame and light hair most closely resembled the dead assassin. The newly acquired wire-rim glasses completed the disguise. He was the bait to attract Captain Slava Shetshikov. He fumbled with the safety of a silenced pistol lying on his lap. On, off, on, off, on, off. He looked down to make sure he ended the sequence in the off position.

"Attention." The crackle broke a long silence. The young decoy’s partner was in t
he same building where Borskov's men had originally shot radioactive paint onto Sorovin's tire. He held a photograph of Shetshikov in his left hand. Through the small binoculars in his right hand he could see the face of a man strolling toward the white sedan. He wore a uniform, which only made him part of the crowd in Moscow. But something was out of place. The man had an overcoat draped over his forearm.

"Possibly armed. Target is
alone and on foot.” He saw no one else on the street. As the man got closer, the KGB agent strained to see his face as clearly as possible. "Target confirmed."

Captain Shetshikov was approaching the sedan from its rear. Borskov and the Israeli watched the untrained officer from the block behind. He moved from side to side as he walked, trying to verify the presence of Sorovin. From a doorway between him and the white sedan an old woman emerged. She was slightly crouched and labored in her walk. She turned away from the car and toward the officer. The Soviet
Army captain gave her only a short glance, quickly ranking her low on the hierarchy of immediate threats. His eyes focused a hundred meters past the white sedan on the entrance to Patriots' Park.

A lone
sentry stood guard at the gate. From the distance it was hard to judge the threat, but Shetshikov guessed that the sentry was actually a teenager. He did not look like one of Sorovin's killers. The captain glanced back at the sedan.

Sorovin had not moved. Shetshikov slowed his pace slightly and glanced around again for anyone who could be an accomplice of
Sorovin. The commando leader was supposed to be alone, but the officer knew that anything from Sorovin's mouth had to be discounted. Shetshikov slowed his pace once again. He had to give the old woman time to pass and get further away before he made his move. He mentally rehearsed his next steps.

The concealed power was unlea
shed with professional accuracy. Shetshikov's face expressed only bewilderment as his back was slammed into a rounded corner that formed the entrance to an apartment alcove. He looked down to see the broad back of what had been a deformed old lady only an instant earlier. The powerful shoulder of his attacker drove into his lungs, forcing out the life-sustaining oxygen. Two massive arms were wrapped around the officer's torso, squeezing ever tighter like a huge boa constrictor.

Shetshikov felt a tugging sensation as another hand grabbed the hair on the back of his head. There was a click that sounded like thunder to the officer. He felt cold steel press against his temple.

"KGB. You are under arrest. If you move your arms, you will die that moment." The voice was as cold as the barrel. Shetshikov was frozen with shock. What just happened?
Sorovin!
Leonid Sorovin had gone over to the other side. He knew the assassin would never turn against his will.

The old woman relaxed her grip and with her left forearm applied pressure against the
captain's chest. She pulled the overcoat off his forearm to reveal a silenced pistol. She took it and looked the officer in the face for the first time, smiling in the process. Shetshikov had the obvious confirmed: the old woman was really a short, powerful man. The officer was turned and spread against the wall. After the short man had emptied Shetshikov's pocket, he bound the officer's wrists with a plastic strip and put a black hood over his head.

A small van pulled up. It was covered in dents and rust spots and had only a bare cor
rugated floor behind the driver’s seat. The rear compartment had no windows. But it would do fine for the immediate purpose. As the two KGB agents pushed Slava Shetshikov into the van, the interrogation process began. "How many of your men are in the area?" asked the short man. The only answer was silence. "How many men?"

The agent who had held the gun to
the officer's head spoke next. "You are now deciding whether you will be alive or dead in a few days."

The hooded head bowed. "I was alone." The words were quiet and without energy.

"Why did you have a silenced gun in your hand?" continued the taller agent.

"Military officers often carry weapons,"
Shetshikov replied, enjoying his own sarcasm.

"What is your name?"

"You know my name."

"What is your name?" The KGB agent was now shouting.

Shetshikov was seated, his back leaning against the thin sidewall of the van. He leaned forward. "You know it!" he shouted.

The strong KGB agent threw a punch that connected with the c
aptain's jaw. Shetshikov recoiled and fell over on his side, pulling his knees into his chest. "Go to hell," he said impassively.

The small man jumped on him and continued punching his face through the hood. "State your name," he repeated over and over between punches. The officer remained silent. After five punches the other KGB agent stopped the shorter man.

"You are going to have a very long death," the taller agent said. The job of the two KGB men had been merely to set the stage for the real interrogation to follow. They had succeeded.

Twenty silent minute
s later the van came to a stop. They had driven to the outskirts of Moscow, to a section of the city that looked more like a wealthy American suburb than part of communist Russia. They were at the end of a short, tree-lined driveway. A Victorian mansion rose above them, providing welcome shade on this hot day. The house had been a summer cottage for one of the Moscow elite before the revolution; now it benefited the people by serving as a safe house for the KGB. Borskov had checked the log books earlier that day at the Lubyanka. The house was free through the weekend, giving them more than enough time to break even the most resolute adversary.

They took the
captain into a basement room, being careful to remove his hood as he walked through the door. The room was steaming hot and had no windows. It resembled a medieval torture cell, only with more modern and hideous devices. The psychological effect was well thought out and quite effective. The two agents continued to escort the officer. They led him to a wooden chair and seated him. The chair was heavy and made of oak. It resembled an electric chair, complete with straps. They strapped his ankles and then cut off his plastic wrist binding, replacing that restraint with separate straps on the arms of the chair. The two men stepped away from the chair and turned on five bright lamps, illuminating the captain's face and forcing him to turn his eyes.

After several minutes Anatoly Borskov entered the room. He paused at the door to examine the damage done by the fists of the smaller agent. Shetshikov had two noticeable bruises on his right jaw and a right eye that had swollen greatly and was threatening to close.

"It is a shame, Captain Shetshikov," stated Borskov, moving closer to his prey, "that you show such valiant resistance on such an irrelevant point."

“Who are you?” asked the officer, his voice betraying his fear.

"Oh but captain, I would much prefer to talk about you. You can start by telling  me why you are  in Moscow." The officer bowed his head. He said nothing. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you." The only reply was silence. The KGB colonel sat down in a chair he had pulled from a corner of the room. It placed him as close to Shetshikov as he could be and still remain on the opposite side of the lights. Borskov loosened his tie and unfastened the top two buttons on his shirt.

“You just asked who I am,” continued Borskov. “I am your friend, Slava. You don’t
mind if I call you Slava, do you?” Silence. “Right now I am the only friend you have in the world. You see, my superiors want to know why you are in Moscow. Unfortunately, my superiors are not patient men. Do you understand me, Slava?”

"Torture," muttered Slava Shetshikov, his mind trying to think of anything else.

"Yes, Slava, I am afraid you're quite right. But you are also very lucky today because I was the one picked to talk to you first. I am not a man of violence. I do not enjoy seeing anyone in your situation. But I have a job to do and I think we can help each other. Just tell me what brings you here to Moscow."

"Forget it. You might as well kill me now." The man tried to see his captor through the lights. He had to turn away.

"I admire your bravery, Slava. I guess I would react the same way if I were you. But bravery doesn't change the realities of torture. You will pray for death and your prayers will go unanswered." The colonel was chiding the Army officer, belying the nature of the conversation. "You can tell me then what unit you are with?"

"If you know my name, you must know that
too."

"What is your unit, Slava?"

"Go to hell."

The questioning continued for over an hour as the sun rose higher, even though no one in the basement room had any sense of day or night. Borskov vacillated between questions and threats. It was a classic interrogation technique. One of the interrogators is quickly established as the sadistic one
, and another – in this case Borskov – is established as the friend. All the while, the friend refers to the imminent consequences of not cooperating – the imagination becoming the instrument of torture. Only this time it had not worked. The captain had the will of a professional soldier. He never directly answered one question, knowing that to do so would open the floodgates.