Gelev scanned the page.
“Not in the report, but there is a filing stamp. Fourth of September, 1971.”
“Thanks. Go ahead.”
“‘Mailbox delivery,’ which you already heard. ‘Pickup completed. Box empty on twentieth. As requested, contacts made at the following addresses on the following dates.’ He lists them, there are several.”
“How many?”
Gelev counted down the page with his forefinger, muttering in Russian beneath his breath.
“Three. Three names and three addresses. And they are not Vienna addresses, nor are they Moscow. Knowing both cities, I can say that with reasonable certainty. Would you like me to read them?”
We nodded. The contacts were first names only, meaning they, too, were probably code names. Karloff, Woodman, Fishwife. None was familiar. He then read the names of the streets, which I recognized right away, and I suspected Litzi did as well.
“The addresses are followed by more of the same. A reference to a mailbox delivery on the twentieth of August. Then someone checked to see that it was empty on the twenty-first. Then another delivery in early September, the first. Details such as that.”
He paused, scanning toward the bottom.
“Ah, here is something different in the final paragraph. I will quote it as precisely as I can: ‘Dewey has employed a new courier. I suggest we approach. On twenty-second of August I also detected possible surveillance of Dewey’s network. Tactics are not those of our usual adversaries. Await your instructions on both matters.’ And that is the end of the document.”
“He doesn’t mention a name for the new courier?”
Gelev checked again, then shook his head.
“No.”
“Could I write down those translated names and addresses?”
“Certainly. Here.”
He handed me a pen, then grabbed a sheet of paper from the feed tray of a printer. I wrote down the addresses as he read them back. One in particular stood out, and my reaction must have been noticeable.
“Have I said something to upset you?” Gelev asked.
Gelev would have made a great cop.
“No. I’m just a little keyed up.”
“The KGB has been known to have that effect. Are you ready for the second document?”
“Please.”
“It was also filed in September 1971, on the sixth of the month. This one is from Oleg to Leo. There is no subject label, but it seems to address several points. I will take them in order.”
“Sure.”
“His expense report for August is approved with one amendment. Payment to Source Nina not authorized.”
“Nina?”
“There is no other explanation. Knowing what I do of Russians abroad, I suspect Leo was trying to get his boss to pay for some woman that he was…” Gelev glanced toward Litzi. “That he was seeing.”
“Don’t mince words on my account,” she said.
“It is not my way to be coarse around ladies. I will continue.”
He slid his forefinger to the next paragraph.
“There is discussion of what sort of car he should drive to the border the following week. Oleg suggests a Skoda that does not come from the embassy motor pool. Ah, here we go. ‘Surveillance of Dewey to which you refer is possibly on behalf of source Glinka, separate from your activities. Do not approach. Integrity of source Dewey could be compromised.”
“Glinka?”
“Yes.”
“Any mention of Dewey’s new courier?”
“That is the next and final item. ‘Proceed with identification of Dewey courier. Full vetting, but Dewey must not know. Report results immediately upon completion.’ “
“So Oleg was concerned.”
“It sounds that way. But, of course, this was forty-one years ago. Perhaps not enough concern for it to still matter.”
“You’re probably right.”
Gelev put the paper down and took a deep breath. He seemed relieved, as if he had expected tales of torture, murder, or some other terrible secret.
I, on the other hand, was disconcerted. In the second memo, Oleg’s reference to Dewey sounded downright cozy, as if they were allies, not adversaries. Although it was still ambiguous. And who were all these other parties spying on Dewey?
“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been a great help. Ten euros a page, you said?”
Gelev waved away the proffered bills and took a bottle of vodka from a desk drawer. He stood and fetched three tumblers from a shelf.
“There is no need for payment. It is just as well if there is no record of this transaction. But we must all have a drink, to wash away the memories of those old and bad times.”
Litzi waved away the glass but he poured her a shot anyway. The two of us sipped. Gelev knocked his back with a single swallow, then poured himself a second, which he finished before we were done. He set down his empty glass with a great sigh.
“You may count on my complete discretion, Mr. Cage. But as someone whose father spent seven years in the Gulag, I hope I may count on yours as well.”
“Of course.”
“Young Feliks, however, is another matter. When he becomes excited he tends to peep like a hungry nestling. So if you will pardon my rudeness, I must find out which cafe he has fled to before he tells half of Vienna about your visit. May I escort you out?”
Gelev frowned as he led us to the door, as if still working something over in his head. He paused after taking out his keys, then spoke again.
“I moved here many years ago, Mr. Cage, long before the difficulties of the Cold War were settled business. If indeed such things are ever settled. When I was younger I used to make a game out of spotting the KGB men who came and went from this city. For Russians this was not difficult, partly because so many of them stayed at the same hotel, Gasthaus Brinkmann. As it happens, I was walking by it only yesterday, and recognized a man coming out the door whose face I had not seen in years.”
He paused to let it sink in.
“KGB?”
Gelev nodded. The vodka was just beginning to bloom in rosy marks on his cheeks.
“Do you know his name?”
“Only what the emigres used to call him-the Hammerhead-because of his massive jawbone, the great size of his skull. My older contacts say he is now pursuing business opportunities, so to speak. The words ‘security consultant’ have been bandied about. But even if he is employed by some Oligarch, it is only cover, if you ask me. Men like the Hammerhead know only one trade. And I find the coincidence of his reappearance with the arrival of these documents to be interesting, perhaps even disturbing.”
“I agree.”
“Yes, I can see that you do.”
“Can you describe him a little more?”
“About your size, but thicker in the middle, maybe fifteen, twenty years older. Brown eyes. A full head of wavy hair, mostly gray now. But as I said, it is his jaw, the size of his head, that stands out. And a great slab of a face, red from vodka, with a wide mouth that never smiles but is often open, as if he were a landed fish gasping for air. It makes him look quite stupid, but I assure you he isn’t.”
“I believe you. We’ll watch out for him.”
