The Falstaff Enigma (34 page)

"Comrades, you see the order of battle before you. My three tank armies will spearhead the offensive, smashing the American forces in the Fulda Gap with overwhelming superiority in numbers and skill. We will also utilize our full arsenal of chemical weapons immed
iately upon engaging the enemy. I expect a complete breakdown of American morale within 48 hours. They depend on drug addicts and blacks. It is a soft and undisciplined force that will crumble under the Soviet onslaught. We will arrive in Frankfurt within four days. The German capital will fall within two weeks and Paris will be ours before America can even hope to mobilize. We have caught our enemy sleeping and we will have no trouble taking advantage of that fact.

"Right now my forces are at seventy per cent operational readiness, their highest since 1945. I had hoped to have enough time to reach eighty per cent, but this is of no consequence. We can go now. To complete the deception, we submitted a very thorough Helsinki Report to NATO this year. In addition, two American observers are with my forces now. They will never realize that they are going to be the first two casualties of the great war of liberation.

"As to the state of our logistics, we are ready. Enough ammunition and spares are currently stockpiled in Eastern Europe to supply us for six months. This is the highest supply level in thirty years. Over six thousand T-10 heavy tanks stand ready to be pulled out of mothballs. These weapons can be operational and on the front two weeks after October Day. And we have over 500 T-80U tanks ready to spearhead the main offensive."

The General grabbed a cardboard poster that Maslov had handed him. He placed its
bottom edge on the podium and leaned over to his left to speak. "The T-80U has remained completely secret to the West, according to our intelligence. The vehicle features a new reactive armor on the turret which can defeat even the American's TOW missile and the depleted uranium kinetic energy dart of the new M-1 Abrams tank. Its main armament is a smooth bore 125 millimeter gun that fires both wire guided missiles and fin-stabilized, discarding-sabot rounds.” The general was beaming, his excitement hurrying his words. "The only area of concern is fuel in the short-run and oil in the long-run. I have only one month's supply currently within my command. General?” He looked at General Maslov, who was seated on the dais on the other side of Marshal Timolenko.

The General s
tood up and addressed the group. "Comrades, it has been my responsibility to stockpile fuel secretly for October Day. Using loyal soldiers of the First Byelorussian Guards Army, we have constructed new underground storage areas throughout Byelorussia and the Ukraine within two hours of the Polish border. We currently have enough diesel fuel to supply the entire offensive for an estimated three to four months. Also, General Zhukulin, Marshal Timolenko and I have completed  plans for Operation Falcon. General Zhukulin, would you like to explain the plans?"

In the center of the small crow
d, a short man rose to his feet. He was 66-years-old and a seasoned veteran of the Great Patriotic War. The man was slightly overweight but still had more than enough energy to lead his troops. He could not wait to start. He was the commander of the South-Western Strategic Direction headquartered in Kiev. It had been his attempt to enlist his favorite subordinate into this conspiracy that led to General Poltovsky's flight into Turkey.

"Thank you,
Ivan. Comrades, we currently have 200,000 troops available to invade Iran. Three days after the start of our offensive, I will order the start of Operation Falcon. Three divisions will march out of the Caucasus and encircle the Iranian lines on the Iraqi border. Of course, Iraq is not aware of this plan, but we are certain that Hussein will quickly align himself with us. An airborne division, along with Spetsnaz units, will fly out of Kabul and seize the oil fields of Khuzestan Province by Kharg Island. Within a week we will control all Iranian oil fields and our fighter-bombers will be able to strike at all other enemy oil targets in the Mideast. In reserve, we are ready to pull the 40
th
Army out of Afghanistan to support operations in Iran." He sat down and all eyes returned to the tall man at the podium.

General Ilyan was very pleased. The plans made sense and were achievable. He realized that the timetables would probably prove too optimistic, but timetables were not crucial in these plans and that was one of the features he liked most. "The offensive starts two hours after the attack on the Politburo
." He turned to the Soviet flag which stood in the corner to his right and saluted. "Comrades, we fight for the motherland," he said, his voice almost at the level of a shout. "Victory to mother Russia!" He dropped his salute and turned back to face the marshal. "The podium is yours, sir."

Marshal T
imolenko returned to the podium. He felt more comfortable than he had before Ilyan's talk. "As all of you know, Marshal Golanov was never approached due to his extreme loyalty to the general secretary." Golanov was the commander of the Group of Soviet Forces in Germany and technically was Ilyan's immediate superior. "Since all of his four Army Group commanders are here, he will find that he has no authority on October Day. He will be exiled to Siberia but allowed to live peacefully. General Ilyan, on October Day you will become the commander of the GSFG with the rank of marshal." Ilyan nodded his head in recognition, his eyes reflecting the joy he had felt when he first heard this news. "I will be in Moscow with the minister to announce the fascist plot and the actions we are taking to defend ourselves. My staff and I will then establish wartime headquarters at Zhiguli."

The meeting continued for forty more minutes, each commander discussing his plan of action and the state of readiness of his forces. When the last
general had spoken, Timolenko knew that they were ready – destiny would not be denied this time.

"Comrades, I salute you and the tr
iumph of the socialist state. You each have the next five days to prepare." Timolenko saluted and all the officers rose to their feet to return the farewell.

Nikolai sat in a red chair, tapping his feet nervously on the red rug. His eyes shifted alternately between a television monitor listing the next hour's arrivals, the long corridor to his right, and the busy tarmac beyond the glass wall a few meters in front of his face. His thoughts were lost momentarily as he watched the Aeroflot jets taxi between the runways and the concourses. As a boy he had always dreamed of becoming a pilot. He still held the same fantasy of international travel, with beautiful women in each of the world's capitals, that afflicted young men from all countries. How easy his life would be now, even though he was at least getting enough excitement to quench his desire for a while. He always hoped for an assignment like this, instead of the constant tedium that his work had been until now. But something had gone wrong. He missed the tedium. It was time for the adrenalin to return to its hidden depositories, but it would not. He cursed his weak eyes for having kept him out of the Air Force.

A new flight number flickered on the monitor, pulling Nikolai's thoughts back to current reality. He had arrived in Moscow five hours earlier, having taken the first available flight after Austin's meeting with the mole. When he contacted Borskov
, he heard about all that had happened in their absence. Their efforts in America had been worthless – except to destroy a Soviet asset that could not be valued. But when the colonel and Margolis arrived at Sheremetyevo Airport an hour later, they had found a use for this wasted asset. The plan had now been clearly formulated, each detail explored for unseen consequences. It contained risk that was unacceptable outside the context of current events. But current events had eliminated risk as a parameter of concern.

Anatoly Borskov leaned against the stand-up counter, eating a chocolate
tort. Next to him David read the morning issue of Izvestia. He skimmed through the usual stories, all the time wondering what the headlines would be in the near future if they failed. He ate nothing, preferring to wait until dinner. The colonel offered a piece of his cake, but the Israeli refused. "You should eat. You never know when you will go without."

David shrugged his shoulders, his thoughts elsewhere.

Borskov finished the tort and checked his watch. He had spent the day before trying to contact the general secretary. He had been continually frustrated by low-level bureaucrats who considered his rank too unimportant to disturb Premier Andropov's long hunting weekend – already underway on a Wednesday afternoon. Too, the KGB colonel could not push very hard, since he could not be sure of the loyalties of whoever was on the other end of the phone. How ironic, thought Borskov, that the hated and inept bureaucracy of the Soviet Union kept him from preventing world annihilation.

Finally, after a sleepless night, he had spoken to the
premier as he emerged from a morning shower at his dacha in the Ural mountains. Convincing Andropov of the threat had been easy. Borskov realized immediately that the premier knew as much as the colonel had known two weeks earlier. Like Borskov, the general secretary guessed that he was in the middle of a purge over which he had no control. But as the colonel provided only a few vague pieces of information, Andropov quickly grasped the reality of what he faced – past events emerging into a coherent plan for the first time in the leader's mind. A meeting was set and Borskov was due in the Kremlin later that day.

"It's time, Colonel," David
said as he picked up the briefcase at his feet. Further down the corridor Nikolai was already in position to intercept Austin as he emerged from the customs office.

Margolis and Borskov sat down in a waiting area not far from Nikolai.
They were in a large crowd of travelers, blending in easily with the tourists and Western businessmen. Their view of the corridor was commanding.

The men waited another twenty minutes before passengers from Austin's flight started to depart from t
he glass-enclosed customs area. The analyst entered the inspection area with his small bag. He was already near the front of the queue but did not want to wait for the Soviet immigration officers, who went about their work with leisurely indifference. He stepped out of the line and walked to the first counter, where an old woman with gray hair and thick glasses slowly examined each passport. Austin flashed his KGB identification and the old woman waved him by with a look of scorn on her face. She detested the privileges of the Party members and bureaucrats, and especially the KGB. Austin paused as he walked by her counter. "Where may I find your supervisor, please?" he asked.

The woman grabbed the next passport and began her routi
ne examination. After a few seconds – just long enough to annoy her young adversary – she pointed toward a door at one end of the room. She never looked up from the passport.

"Thank you," Austin
said, feeling embarrassed about his power. He walked over to the door and went into a small office. On his left was a desk, behind which sat a young man typing away slowly on an old manual typewriter. On Austin's right was an overweight woman in her fifties. Both desks faced Austin, but the woman had her back to him as she dug through a file cabinet. Austin turned back to the man and extended his identification. "Are you in charge here?"

The young man stopped and showed great concern after realizing what organization this intruder represented. “No, sir. She is.” He pointed to the woman.

Austin turned to the woman, who seemed not to notice him. "Excuse me, please." The woman did not react. "Excuse me."

"Yes, I can hear you," she replied as she continued to search through her files.

"My name is Andrei Glinka. I am with the KGB."

The woman coolly turned her head around to look at Austin's identification and then returned to her task. "Who do you want us to stop today?"

"I don't want you to stop anyone. There is …“

"Found it!" exclaimed the woman. She pushed her chair back to her desk, pu
lling out a file in the process. “Sorry. Go on."

"There is a man with a Swiss passport named Tomas Strauss on this flight. I want him cleared without inspection."

"Turn around and tell me when you see him at Passport Control." The woman opened the file and began reading the top page.

Austin turned around.
A small window was in the center of the office's door. In a few minutes Berkshire emerged into Austin's view. Five minutes later the mole was next in line at the old woman's counter. "He is here."

The supervisor walked to the door. “You mean the tall, slender one?”

“Yes.”

She walked bac
k behind her desk and sat down. She picked up her phone and dialed two numbers. "Allow the tall man with the Swiss passport, last name s-t-r-a-u-s-s, to pass unhindered."

"Thank you,"
Austin said as he walked out of the office, continuing through two glass doors into the airport's corridor without looking at Berkshire. He walked over to a television monitor and waited until the mole walked through the same doors. Berkshire pushed a luggage cart full of luggage, but not nearly what you would expect from a man who had just left home for the last time. Austin walked over to this displaced man and spoke to him in English using his fake Russian accent. "Follow me from distance."

Austin no sooner started to walk down the corridor than he saw Nikolai rise a
nd walk to a bank of pay phones. Austin followed him and picked up the phone next to the one Nikolai was now holding to his ear. The mole sat down across the hallway and waited for Austin. The analyst inserted a coin and pressed one button, which accomplished nothing. He looked into the phone. Nikolai had his back turned slightly to Austin and Berkshire.

"We know who the leader is," said Nikolai.
“It is Marshal Anton Timolenko. He commands an Army based outside Minsk in Byelorussia, the First Byelorussian Guards Army. He commanded all Soviet forces in Germany until a year ago. He tried to start a war then and was demoted to his current command."

“What do we do with this guy?”
Austin asked, referring to the mole he had persuaded to defect.

“There is a plan and he is the key. Do you have paper and pen?”

“Yes.”

"Then write down this numbe
r: one-zero-five-zero-nine-two. That number will patch him through to Timolenko's command center if he is calling from Minsk. Aeroflot flight 850 leaves in an hour for Minsk. You two must be on it and he must check his bags. On the flight try to feel him out to see if he knows who Timolenko is. If he knows him, then find out how well he knows him, and if not then explain that Savitsky worked for him. Tell him it is your understanding that he is to meet Timolenko and be sure to give him the paper with the phone number on it. But also act nervous. Do not walk with him in Minsk. You will be arrested at some point within the airport by our men, leaving this man completely isolated and alone. He will have only one option: to turn to Timolenko for help. We can only hope that Savitsky kept the marshal informed of his American activities."

"It is risky, but where does it go from there?"

"You will see after we arrest you. Now you must go." Austin hung up the phone and continued down the long corridor toward the main terminal. Nikolai continued talking into the empty receiver as Berkshire followed the analyst. The mole was bewildered as he consumed the sights and sounds of a country he had never before visited.

As the pair passed by, David dropped his newspaper enough to watch the elegant stride of the American traitor. Borskov spoke first. "Yes, I think it will work."

"I can do it," replied the Mossad spy.

The airport outside Minsk was insignificant compared to the vast
expanse of Sheremetyevo Airport. The 650 kilometer trip had taken just over two hours and had not been comfortable. The old turboprop airplane was as loud as a windstorm and it flew through constant turbulence during the late afternoon flight. Austin had his talk with Berkshire and quickly realized that the mole knew exactly who Timolenko was and what he was up to. The analyst gave his would-be compatriot the slip of paper with the phone number on it. The bait had been set and the trap was ready to be sprung.

The pilot proved as poor as the flight. The old plane shuddered violently as its main wheels slammed onto the runway, bounced back into the air and slammed back down again. The turboprop's brakes brought the plane down to taxiing spe
ed with screeching inefficiency. But at least there was not the delay getting to the gate that the analyst had so often experienced at LaGuardia or O'Hare. The plane had taxied only a few hundred meters from the runway when it stopped, its engines whirring to a halt. There was an uncomfortable wait as a bus found its way slowly to the lonely aircraft.

As the plane's occupants boarded the bus, Austin noticed his Israeli partner an
d Nikolai seated near the front. Austin did not look at the men except with his peripheral vision. He was still not sure what plan they had in mind. They could follow Berkshire, but what would that do? They must already know where Timolenko is, so there can't be a benefit in letting the mole go. There had to be something more that they were planning. Austin had to be content to wait. He would find out soon.

The bus had a defective exhaust system and seemed to be depositing its diesel fumes directly into the passenger compartment. Everyone was eager to get off as the bus pulled up to the terminal building. Austin deliberately slowed his pace to allow Margolis and Nikolai time to do whatever they needed to do to set the stage for the upcoming ruse. Austin stepped into the building. It was not well lighted and was already quite dark inside as the sun sank faster in the sky. The analyst stopped and pul
led the DIA mole to the side. Austin looked around nervously. "This is when I not feeling good as I should," whispered the analyst. "Soon we are safe, but now do not walk with me until we get taxi. Understand?" Berkshire nodded and Austin instantly continued the walk down the terminal. He waited by a newsstand as the mole retrieved his checked bags. Berkshire was barely able to carry his possessions with him. Austin automatically started to offer assistance but checked himself and resumed his walk. The slow pace of the burdened mole widened the gap between Austin and the supposed Swiss national.

Robert Austin was nearing the front doors of the terminal when he saw the movement from the corner of his left eye. He turned to look at the large man stepping toward him. It was not someone he recognized. Suddenly he felt a pressure on his right upper arm. Another man had grabbed him from the rear and was now twisting his right wrist behind his back. "You are under arrest,” said the man behind Austin, his voice rough and unrecognizable. The analyst felt panic surge through his body as the first man joined his partner in hustling Austin out the door and into a waiting sedan. Austin did not know either of these men and he did not know the driver, who accelerated the car through the traffic as if rushing a dying patient to emergency room surgery.

“Who are you?” asked the analyst, his voice breaking with fear.

“Silence,” replied the same man who had spoken before.

The sedan hurried along the terminal building and exited through the airport's front entrance. The car turned to the right and traveled a short distance. The driver slowed and turned right again, back into the airport. He flashed some sort of identification as they passed a guard booth without stopping. They were headed back to the terminal but were approaching from the side instead of the front. The car entered onto a downward ramp and disappeared underneath the terminal building. The dirty underground was busy with airport employees walking around and driving trams in apparently random patterns. The sedan passed several offices on the right and began to slow. Austin saw a door open up ahead and exhaled loudly as Nikolai stepped into the artificial light. The sedan paused just long enough to eject its captive. The analyst was deposited unceremoniously as Nikolai held the door open.