The Kremlin Letter (11 page)

Potkin relaxed. “Th-the standard briefing time for ordinary cases is under two weeks. Mo-mo-most usually a-a we-we-week or less.”

“Are you sure of this?” asked Kosnov.

“It has been true in the past,” Potkin managed.

“And these ten briefings were all under two weeks?” asked an officer whom Potkin had never seen before.

“Ah-ah-all were under one week. And all men were sent to standard operating offices.”

“All but one,” Kosnov interjected. “A Mr. Lyman Smith.” He looked in the file. “According to your report, Mr. Smith was to be sent to Cairo as an architectural consultant to a housing project. That is correct, isn't it?”

Potkin thumbed through his report. He found the pages.

“Th-th-that is correct.”

“He never arrived in Cairo,” stated Grodin.

Potkin stiffened.

“However,” said the man Potkin did not know, “on the day Mr. Lyman Smith was supposed to arrive in Cairo, a Mr. Theodore Webber arrived in Budapest—as an industrial consultant. We have a photograph of Mr. Webber sent to us from Budapest.” The man pushed it across the table to Potkin. “It bears a strange resemblance to the photograph you provided of Mr. Lyman Smith.”

Potkin compared the picture with the one in his file. It was the same man. Webber? Smith? He opened his briefcase and thumbed through it. Webber? Smith? He remembered something about Smith. What was it? He knew the men at the table were watching him.

“When did you say Webber arrived in Budapest?” Potkin asked without a stutter. He seldom stuttered under real pressure.

“On September 12,” replied his assailant.

“And when had I stated he was due in Cairo?”

“On September 12.”

Potkin shuffled through some more papers. He found the one he wanted. “Here is my master report. ‘Arrival due between September 12 and September 20.'”

His adversary looked down at his own report. “Mine says only September 12.”

“Have you the actual report or a summary?” Kosnov asked.

“A summary,” the man answered. “But it makes no difference. Even if the date was between the 12th and the 20th. The man still showed up in Budapest, not Cairo.”

Potkin relaxed. “He delivered a cake.”

“He did what?”

“He delivered a cake,” Potkin repeated. “An angel-food cake with vanilla frosting. Sprinkled with red candy dots. It was a birthday cake for a Mr. William Novak, Mr. Novak's mother, who is a close friend of the director of the CIA, baked a cake for her son. At the last minute Mr. Smith was asked if he would deliver it on his way to Cairo. He did so. Then he went on to his assignment. If you will check you will find he is now in Egypt.”

“Then why weren't we notified?” demanded the man.

“Be-because he arrived in Cairo on the 18th. Well within the t-t-time limit we specified.”

“He could have been delivering a message in Hungary. Something could have been in that cake.”

“I was only asked wh-where he was going and when. Not what he was going to do on the way.”

“That is understood,” said Kosnov. “But what percentage of operatives have you now investigated? Let us forget about the cake.”

“Approximately eighty-five percent of the agents. We are still working on the remainder.”

“Not at all bad,” replied Kosnov. “Were you able to bring the data on recent discharges and retirements? This has a low-priority potential rating, but it is still worth having in the machines.”

In the week before Potkin's trip to Moscow, Kosnov had requested information on agents who had retired, been discharged or were on leave. Only names had been asked for. No records. That would come later.

“I have re-re-retirement and discharge.” Potkin opened his briefcase and passed copies around the table. The list contained one hundred and thirty-three names. They decided to initiate investigation on those who had left the service after Polakov's death. This left fifty-nine. The forty-second name read: Rone, Charles Evans, USN, (ONI), Lt. Comd., Disch. Oct. 10, 1964.

Colonel Kosnov left the party at precisely nine o'clock. Potkin remained. He had spent the first part of the evening trying to find Bresnavitch. He finally gave the package to Bresnavitch's son-in-law Captain Grodin. Potkin tasted the food sparingly. He drank two glasses of vodka. He did not see Brezhnev or Kosygin. Potkin had been told they would be there. Perhaps they hadn't arrived. Perhaps they had left. Mikoyan was there. Suslov was not. Suslov was sick, it was said. Could one believe it? There were a few other notable absences. Khrushchev, of course. The Chinese, naturally. Potkin idly wondered if Maya and the children were all right. He had been backed against the wall by a bearded Cuban with a large cigar and an impossible Spanish accent to his rudimentary Russian when Grodin summoned him. He followed him up the marble staircase and into the library. It was a warm, wood-paneled room with a carved stone fireplace. Logs were burning. Bresnavitch was standing beside the desk examining the contents of the package Potkin had brought him. It was a small oil painting. There was an expression of reserved ecstasy on his face.

“Superior, is it not?” Bresnavitch called out to Potkin.

“Yes.”

“Come closer. Come closer. You can hardly make it out from that distance.”

Potkin did as he was ordered. He stood studying the picture. He did not like art. He did not understand it. He slept at the ballet.

“
Now
what is your opinion?”

“It is very pretty.”

“It is more than that. It is one of his best. It is superior. Wouldn't you agree?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that you were carrying a Klee?” Bresnavitch asked.

“No.”

“What did you think was given you then?”

“Just a package.”

Bresnavitch was glowing with pleasure at his new acquisition. He played with Potkin. “Just a package?”

“Yes.”

“Not even a picture?”

“No.”

“You must have felt the frame? You must have wondered what it was?”

“I have carried too many packages for too many people to begin wondering what is inside. This time it was something of beauty. On other occasions it might have been otherwise.”

Bresnavitch laughed. “That is our Potkin. The eternal logician. If it had been me I would have peeked. I cannot bear not knowing everything that is going on.”

Bresnavitch put down the painting, led Potkin to a deep leather chair beside the fireplace and seated himself opposite him.

He leaned toward Potkin. “Tell me, comrade, which one do you think it will be?”

“What?”

“Who will be the victor? Brezhnev or Kosygin?”

“Ah—ah—ah—I have no—no—idea.”

“Come, Comrade Potkin,” coaxed Bresnavitch, “you must have discussed it with someone. Your wife, perhaps?”

“No. No one.”

Bresnavitch displayed a long and practiced frown. “Comrade Potkin, this is 1964. Lenin and Stalin are dead. Beria is gone. The Soviet Union is no longer a dictatorship. We are now powerful, prosperous, educated. Our strength has always been our ability to adjust—to the worst as well as the best. Comrade Suslov is still a Stalinist. He is heard. We reject his ideas rather than eliminate the man. The Central Committee rules the country. It is many men with many opinions. They do not have to be in agreement. But they cannot be ignored. Comrade Khrushchev found this out the difficult way.”

“I still ha-ha-haven't thought about it.”

“Of course you've thought about it, just as every Russian, European, American and Oriental has thought about it. Just as Brezhnev and Kosygin themselves have thought about it. We delude no one. It takes no dialectics to prove that only one man can rule, be it communism, capitalism or monarchy. History has been quite specific in this point. We are all speculating on the ultimate victor. It has become the national Russian pastime. The way things stand now I say it will be Suslov. What about you, Grodin?”

“I would say Kosygin.”

Bresnavitch made a long face and turned to Potkin. “And you, comrade, what is your guess?”

“Ah—ah—I haven't given it any thought. You—you must believe me. I have no opinion.”

“But you are Russian. This is your country and your future,” Bresnavitch said sternly. “What is more, you're a member of the Communist Party.”

“Ah—ah—I have been working. I haven't had time to do anything else.”

“It is exactly what you have been working on that could seriously alter the situation in the Kremlin.”

“I don't understand,” Potkin said.

“What do you think Kosnov is up to? What do you think the real motive is for Series Five?”

“Ah—ah—I would ra-ra-rather not talk about it.”

“But you will talk about it, my dear comrade, that is exactly why you are here. I am asking you again: What do you think is behind this mania Colonel Kosnov has developed for Series Five?”

Potkin grew calm as he turned to subjects that were within his own realm of competence. “I think it can be of great value.”

“In what way?”

“Complete knowledge of enemy agents and their locations makes all counterespionage work much more easy.”

“Is that what Colonel Kosnov is interested in? Making counterespionage work easier?”

“I would suppose so.”

“Suppose, Comrade Potkin?”

“I am not informed of all of his plans. I only do what is asked of me.”

Bresnavitch smiled condescendingly. “Comrade Potkin, your department has spent almost thirteen million rubles in the last two months. Whether I am supposed to know that or not, I do. The information did not come to me through my son-in-law here. It is immaterial if you believe that or not. Doesn't thirteen million rubles seem rather excessive just to make work a little easier?”

Potkin had no answer.

Bresnavitch sat back and folded his hands under his chin. “What do you know about the letter?”

“Wh-wh-what letter?”

Bresnavitch and Grodin exchanged looks.

“What do you think Kosnov is after?”

“Polakov's replacement,” answered Potkin.

“Why should that be so important?” Bresnavitch leaned toward Potkin. “Why should it be worth thirteen million rubles in just your department alone?”

“Ah—ah—I don't know.”

“But it does seem that this case is more important to Kosnov than any other he has handled?”

Potkin thought. “It seems im-important.”

“Do you know what Polakov was doing in Moscow?”

“No.”

“He was delivering a letter. A letter from the British. We have reason to believe that it was meant for a high Soviet official possibly as high as the Central Committee.”

“Wh-what kind of letter?”

“We believe it was an agreement.”

“I don't understand.”

“At least four major groups attempted to depose Khrushchev and take up his mantle. Each in its own way attempted to gather support within the Kremlin and the Central Committee. Every ploy was played, every lure offered to entice potential allies. As the competition mounted, risks were taken, grave risks—and sometimes foolish ones. As we all know, maneuverings in such situations are always open to misinterpretation—and misinterpretation often borders on, shall we say ‘treason'?”

Bresnavitch moved across the room, picked up the carafe and returned to his seat.

“One of the contending groups obviously tried to muster support from the pro-Western elements of the government. They apparently entered into some type of arrangement with the West. A
written
arrangement.”

“The letter?” asked Potkin.

“Exactly.” Bresnavitch poured himself a vodka. “The letter was proof of the agreement. Material evidence to gain support. We are not exactly sure what was in it, but it was a guarantee.”

Potkin shook his head slowly. “This is the first I have heard of this,” he assured them. He analyzed what he had been told. “Then Colonel Kosnov is after the holder of the letter.”

“It would appear so, wouldn't it?” Bresnavitch sipped his drink contentedly. “But Comrade Potkin, the letter was never delivered.”

“Wha-what?”

“Polakov was apprehended before he could make delivery; apprehended by Kosnov.”

“Then where is the letter?”

“Where would you think?”

Potkin hesitated. “Colonel Kosnov?”

“Precisely. We believe Colonel Kosnov has the letter, but we do not believe he knows who it was intended for. That, as I see it, is the reason for Series Five. He hopes the new Western agent will lead him to the guilty party—or parties.”

Grodin handed Potkin another drink.

“Comrade Potkin,” Bresnavitch said firmly. “I want to get there before Kosnov does. And I want you to help me.”

“But—but, ah—ah—I work for C-C-Colonel Kosnov.”

“My dear Potkin, you work for him in an administrative capacity. This is a
political
issue. You cannot be simple enough to assume that Series Five is a routine intelligence operation. Kosnov has the letter but it is useless to him unless he discovers the intended recipient. Which group, which of the four was it meant for? Once this is determined, those men, or that man, will be politically in debt to their detector. That is what Kosnov is striving for and that is what I and my group want.

“We have managed to stay out of this Khrushchev fight and remain unaffiliated. With additional votes at our disposal we will be one of the most potent forces in Russia.”

Potkin felt perspiration break out along his brow. “You—you p-p-put me in a very difficult position.”

“I once did you a service when you were in an even more difficult position, after the Hungarian trouble. I am not asking for repayment.”

“Whatever you say,” Potkin told him.

“Excellent. We simply want to know everything that happens in your department before Kosnov does.”