The Falstaff Enigma (35 page)

“Thank you, comrades,” Nikolai
said to the men remaining in the sedan, which immediately drove off to carry on with a more normal day. "Sorry about that, Robert," said Nikolai as he accompanied the analyst through a door.

Austin walked into the office. It was vacant except for a desk, a couple of cheap chairs and a spiral staircase up through the ceiling. "Don't worry. You warned me. Who were those guys?"

Nikolai closed the door and sat down in a metal chair against a wall that held a framed map of the airport. "Just local policemen. We pointed you out and they went to work. As far as they knew, the arrest was the real thing. At least your reaction was very realistic." Nikolai couldn’t restrain the smile on his face.

On the floor above, the mole had seen the arrest from a safe distance. He succumbed to the same panic Austin had felt, only his chance of immediate relief was not nearly so great. The distinguished looking man found a phone and tried desperately to hide the luggage that now served only as a scarlet letter. He cursed his height, his looks, his distinguished manner. He stood out in the crowd of gray Russians – he looked like a foreigner, an American. His
head swept slowly from one side of the building to another, searching for the faces of professional security agents. He thought about all the rumors he had always heard about Russian counterintelligence. He feared torture more than any other fate.

Thomas Berkshire knew exactly why his companion had been arrested. Marshal Anton
Timolenko was the leader of a group planning to overthrow the government and Berkshire was one of only a handful of people who knew that. He had been recruited by his KGB contact because he knew that the administration of Premier Andropov was drifting away from true socialism and the DIA mole could provide crucial assistance in stopping the premier. Berkshire was in a position to derail attempts to understand what was about to happen in the Soviet Union, just as he had done with that nosey analyst, Robert Austin. But he knew that Andropov and his loyalists would naturally fight hard to retain their power. And now, when he was so close to ultimate safety, he was in the greatest danger he had known since he started working for the Soviets.

Execution was always so unlikely in the U
.S., so remote. There were too many safeguards to keep him off death row, too many judges willing to empathize with his torn convictions. But here it was different; death lingered on the whims of those who held power. He removed his glasses, knowing that they were like a neon sign against the underlying darkness.

He picked up the telephone receiver and strained to recall the number Yuri Savitsky had admonished him so many times to memorize.
What the hell is it? Ten-fifty-ninety. Ten-fiftyninety-one. Ten-fifty-ninety-two. That's it!
The number was the same one Austin had given him on the flight. The sheet of paper was folded in his breast pocket, but he had never really looked at the number in the first place. He did not even think of the paper in his pocket. He pulled the few coins that Austin had given him from his pocket and inserted a single kopek coin in the slot. He dialed the number.

In a back office on the main floor of the terminal, an excited young KGB agent played with a console of old mechanical dials.
"It's coming through," the man said, his straight blond hair bouncing from side to side as he manipulated the machinery.

David Margolis and the two agents who had discovered Sorovin's bloody corpse stood behind the telephone operator. David was now the senior officer in this group. "Put it through the speaker," he commanded. The operator complied and the room was greeted with the sound of ringing.

"Byelorussian Army Group Command. Senior Lieutenant Bulevsky.” Berkshire did not understand a word.

"Ah … ah … Timolenko. Marshal Timolenko."

"Identify yourself."

"Marshal Timolenko. American. I am American. Do you speak English?"

The officer who had answered did not know a word of English. He did not respond; he had to think about his next move. "Wait. Do not hang up." There was the sound of plastic striking wood.

"I am American. Marshal Timolenko," continued Berkshire, unaware that the second party was absent.

In the listening room, David had to fight to keep from laughing at how the conversation was progressing.

"Yes. I speak American," came a new voice.

"Good. I must speak with Marshal Timolenko." Berkshire's voice was a little more relaxed than a second before.

"You must please identify."

“My name is Thomas Berkshire. I am an American. I must speak with Marshal Timolenko.

"American? Where you now?"

"I am in the Minsk airport."

"I not understand. Wh
y you here?"

"I am an American defector."

"Ah, defector. I have foreign ministry contact you. What is you name again?"

"No, no. You do not understand. I w
ork for Marshal Timolenko and I am under his orders." It was not technically true, but the mole had to get past this low-ranking translator. "Please tell the marshal that Thomas Berkshire must speak with him."

"Hold, please." The words were confused. Almost two minutes passed before the same man came back on the line. "I have now my commanding officer
here. Please, what is you name again?"

"Thomas Berkshire, Thomas Berkshire." The mole lifted his elbow to the phone’s wooden backing and leaned his forehead into his left palm, his fingers curling up and into his hairline. He exhaled to relieve his frustration. If this were an American officer he would be screaming at the fool. In the background he could hear the Russian soldier exchanging excited sentences with his commander.

"Hold, please."

Berkshire slammed his left fist against the wood paneling and quickly returned it to a position in which it could support his head again. He could hear nothing and began to wonder what he would do next if this plan failed. He had no visa. He spoke no Russian. He knew nothing of Soviet culture or even how he could get around. He had only a few rubles in his pocket. What if he were arrested? If he could only hold out until the revolution he would survive. But he had no idea when the coup was scheduled. Maybe it had been called off or was already crushed. In any case, he could expect to be tortured or, even worse, thrown into a mental institution and forgotten.

In his peripheral vision he saw the silhouette of a tall man. He turned his head very slightly, pivoting against his palm. The man was walking toward him through the terminal, young and carrying himself with authority. Berkshire reviewed his alternatives. He could hang up and try to escape or he could handle the man physically if necessary. The need for a decision was postponed; the young man continued down the concourse.

“Please, sir," came the voice of the Russian soldier. "You can give proof?"

Berkshire thought for a moment.
The code!
Savitsky had given him a code along with the phone number. “Yes, tell the marshal that I enjoy reading Dostoyevsky.”

"Hold, please."
The soldier spoke to someone briefly. "Sir, we be there in little time. In building there is counter for Poland aeroplanes: LOT. Wait there. We arrive in several lorries." The soldier had learned his English from a Briton.

"Hurry. I
am in danger."

"Yes, sir.
We come now."

In the back office, David Margolis spoke into a walkie-talkie. "Take him now. And bring up Major Glinka."

Thomas Berkshire picked up his most important piece of luggage, a large tan bag, and started out to find the LOT counter. His eyes were weak at long distances, but he kept his glasses off, still certain that they would give him away. He was starting to feel good again, the probability of a successful outcome having climbed back up to a reasonable level.

He was passing a door with a yellow sign when the end of his liberty came. He had not noticed the two men who grabbed him from behind, each man tightly clutching one of the mole's upper arms. They led him through the door, a third man opening it from inside and taking the prisoner's bag as the trio passed. The thought of resistance flashed through Berkshire's mind briefly, but the overwhelming futility of his position destroyed the thought, leaving the strong, distinguished man an impassive spectator to his own end. After all these years, his destruction would be at the hands of the people he risked so much to help.

He suddenly knew that there would be no rescue, no foreseeable liberation. Only a dark cell remained. Berkshire acted instinctively. He twisted his entire body, his right side shooting forward, equally offset by the rearward motion of his left side. His passivity had been effective, both men lost their grip and their balance. He extended his right leg just far enough to catch the legs of the captor on his right, who fell over. The mole completed the rotation by bringing his right fist up and around. It made contact squarely with the left eye socket of the other captor, accelerating the man's rearward movement until he backed into the trailing third man. Berkshire had only a second or two to act. With his left hand he felt for the collar of his white cotton shirt. He found the right pointed collar resting close to his tie's Windsor knot. He bent it upward as he bent his head downward, pushing his chin into his neck. The collar slipped naturally between his lips, his teeth making out the contour of what he sought. He bit down on the capsule and sucked on his collar. The taste of bitter almond covered his tongue. He thought about his mother and the childhood that seemed so long ago. Peace entered his body.

Cyanide works quickly.
Thomas Berkshire fell lifeless to the floor as his three captors looked on. A few meters down the hall a door opened and David looked out. He knew instantly. "Get him in here right now," he commanded. The guards dragged the corpse into the telephone switching office. One of them put his ear to the body's chest.

"He's dead,"
the man said, his eyes unable to make contact with David.

"Don't worry about it," replied
the Israeli. "He's better off. Check through his pockets and give me everything. You.” David pointed to the man who had opened the hallway door. "Go get the rest of his bags." David picked up the small transmitter once again. "Bring in the major."

Robert Austin and Nikolai walked into the office from another door. "What happened?" Austin
asked, rushing over to the man he had just escorted out of the United States. Berkshire's eyes were open and in a frozen stare. Austin smelled the cyanide and understood. He turned to David, but what he saw made him pause. The Mossad spy had a new guise. He wore an expensive suit and tortoise-rimmed glasses. The gray hair of his original disguise had been re-dyed. It was now a black/gray mix and well groomed. Too, David seemed a little taller than usual. The analyst checked the Israeli's shoes. They featured unusually large heels. For the first time since leaving Tel Aviv, David looked distinguished again.

Austin gasped and shook his head. "No, you're not going to do this," he said partly as statement and partly as question.

David nodded. "It's the only way." He began to look through the wallet that had just been handed to him, pulling out everything that had a photograph and replacing it with new, false documents.

"No, this is too risky. What if they know Berkshire?"

"I doubt  it. If so, he wouldn't have needed a codeword when he called the marshal."

"He used a codeword?"

"Yes. He was prepared for this situation."

David bent over a counter and started practicing Berkshire's signature, which was on a number of the leftover traveler's checks in his wallet, some under the name of Strauss and some under Berkshire.

"Does the colonel know about this?"

"Yes, of course.
We developed this plan ourselves after Nikolai returned this morning. What can you tell me about him?"

Austin looked at Nikolai. He did not need to register his indignation verbally. He looked back at his old friend. "Berkshire?"

"Yes."

"Nothing, really. We hardly spoke. What do you know now?"

"His file gave a complete bio."

Austin shook his head slowly. "The only thing I can add is that he enjoyed vodka on the rocks during the flight."

David looked up from the scrap sheet of paper he was using. One of the young KGB men handed him a gold watch and a ring. The Mossad agent put both on, even though the ring was a little big. "One last thing," he said as he walked toward the door. "Open his luggage. Remove any photos and papers,” Margolis commanded to two of the men. Once their work was done, the Mossad agent stepped over to the open suitcases. “I need to memorize the contents."

"There is one thing,"
Austin said suddenly. "He had never been in the East before and knew nothing of Soviet culture and not a word of Russian."

David nodded in acknowledgment. He finished going through the bags in only a couple of minutes. His expansive mind readily soaked up the details, storing them for use on command. He picked up the bags and started to leave.

Austin patted him on the back. "Good luck, my friend.” David smiled faintly. He did not lack for courage, but at the same time he feared death. He could feel its proximity.