‘I’ll cooperate,’ said Levin, making a promise of his own.
‘I know you will.’
‘And Natalia?’
‘What about her?’
‘Will you – your people – try to help me there, too? Through the State Department, maybe?’
‘We’ll do what we can: I’ll personally ask Washington for advice, to work out the best way.’
‘Just three days?’ queried Levin, as if he found it difficult to believe.
‘At the outside.’
‘Thank you, David. For everything. You’re a good friend.’
‘There won’t be any problems.’
‘It’s difficult to imagine that right now,’ said Levin. ‘All I can think of right now is that I’ve made a terrible mistake.’
On the other side of the World, Yuri Vasilivich Malik was also reflecting upon mistakes, trying to assess their potential – and personal – danger. At his inferior, first-posting level it would be a mistake to interfere in what he knew was being planned but of which he was officially supposed to know nothing. Yet the retribution operation that Ilena had disclosed to him was madness. And could only result in the sort of disaster that had so very recently engulfed the GRU; maybe even a worse disaster. By which, therefore, he could be destroyed. So either way he lost. The decision, then, had to be one of degrees, between the greater and the lesser.
One of his instructors at the Metrostroevskaya Street training school – into the idiosyncracies of the American language and its slang – had been a pale-skinned, pale-haired American trapped by his homosexuality into passing over US defence secrets from Silicon Valley who’d chosen defection when his FBI arrest became inevitable. Yuri had particularly liked the expression encompassing indecision: either shit or get off the pot. He’d never expected it to become personally applicable.
It took only three hours for Yuri to complete the confirmatory round journey to the military section of Kabul airport – aware it might also provide some minimal protection against any later punishment of Ilena, if there were an inquiry into his source – and return to the embassy by noon. He bypassed his own cramped, junior office in the rezidentura – and Ilena’s separate accommodation, because he did not want to frighten her – to make his way directly to the comparatively expansive quarters of Georgi Petrovich Solov.
‘Yes?’ inquired the duty clerk.
‘I have to see the Comrade Rezident,’ said Yuri. He added: ‘Upon a matter of the utmost urgency and importance.’
6
Protocol within the KGB is more strictly regimented and observed than it ever was in the court of the Tsars and the Kabul controller considered himself in an impossible position having the son of someone now a First Deputy dumped upon him. More so because there had been no instruction – not even discreet guidance – from Moscow how to treat the man, which there should have been. It left him exposed. Forced into creating his own guidelines, Georgi Solov had so far proceeded with caution, even supported by the courage imbued by vodka. A native of Askhabad, just across the border in Turkmeniya – where his parents had actually been practising Muslems – the narrow-faced, burnt-skinned Solov was fluent in three local dialects as well as Farsi, looked more Afghan than southern Russian and rightly considered himself a natural choice to head the rezidentura. Assigning this man, with his fair-haired, open-faced Western complexion, collar-and-tie-and-suit appearance (which he made no effort to modify) and complete lack of any language qualifications, made as much sense as delegating him to the moon. Probably less; on the moon he could have mingled more easily with the American astronauts. Without question it was an appointment about which to be suspicious. And careful. But at the same time not allowing the slightest indication of subservience, which might equally be an error. With that in mind, Solov actually thought of refusing the demand for an unscheduled meeting, insisting the man return for a later appointment. But there was the high-priority retribution business, so Solov decided a delay was an unnecessary reminder of his seniority. But with some regret.
Solov didn’t offer a chair and tried to open forcefully, intending the younger man to be intimidated by his appearing irritated. He said: ‘I certainly hope this is something of the utmost urgency and importance!’
‘I have just returned from the airport,’ announced Yuri, unimpressed. ‘Seen barrels and containers of gas and poison being unloaded from transporters.’ Two things were important: frightening the pompous fool and hinting he knew everything, which he almost did.
Impressions – uncertainties – swirled through Solov’s mind like sand in a storm. It was strictly forbidden for a junior KGB officer to go in or out of the rezidentura without stating his destination and reason in the logbook. Which Yuri Malik well knew. Yet the man was standing there almost proudly declaring a breach of regulations. Unworried by any thought of being disciplined then: an important consideration. At once there came to Solov another and maybe more important awareness. The Eyes-Only Moscow traffic had been strictly limited to himself and maybe five other people, although he supposed wider gossip was inevitable once the shipments started to arrive by air. But had the man known in advance, through some other channel? Could the damned man’s posting – the retribution proposal itself – be some sort of test, of loyalty or ability? Proceed cautiously, Solov thought; very cautiously. Trying for the protective barrier of the operating procedure within the intelligence section of the embassy, Solov said: ‘You made no entry of your movements this morning.’
‘If this operation goes ahead – if people are poisoned and gassed – you will end up in a gulag serving a sentence that will make the GRU imprisonment seem like a holiday,’ said Yuri. The outrage at the insubordination would come now if it were going to come at all.
Solov’s mental sandstorm raged on. Contemptuously dismissive of regulations now, not even bothering to respond. So the man was completely unworried. Not just unworried: sure enough of himself to threaten a superior officer with imprisonment. Unthinkable. Solov said: ‘How did you come into possession of classified information?’ The stilted formality weakened the demand and he recognized it.
So did Yuri, who thought the ploy of keeping him standing was juvenile. Further psychologically to pressure the other man, he pulled an available chair close to Solov’s desk and sat on it, leaning forward in an attitude of urgency. He said: ‘The GRU catastrophe was not the mujahideen ambush, the number of men and the amount of equipment we lost. It was the fact that the disaster – the apparent stupidity – was witnessed and broadcast in the West. The mujahideen know the value of such exposure. It will be impossible to disguise or hide the extent of the slaughter being planned: hundreds, thousands, will die. And they’ll smuggle cameras in again to record it and the Soviet Union will be pilloried again. But worse this time. Not just shown losing a battle. Shown like some sort of barbaric savages, killing women and children…’
Solov was visibly sweating, subservient though he’d determined not to be. He said: ‘They are the orders, from Moscow.’
‘From whom?’
‘Comrade Director Agayans.’
It was not a name Yuri knew but there was no reason why he should. Confident he controlled the meeting now, he said: ‘Initiated by Moscow?’
Solov isolated the danger in the question. ‘Oh yes,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Definitely from Moscow.’
Yuri decided it was necessary to frighten the other man further. Knowing the answer already, he said: ‘But there has been some liaison?’
‘Communication, yes,’ agreed Solov reluctantly.
‘So the inquiry will have evidence of your involvement, from your signed messages?’
‘What inquiry?’
‘Don’t you think there’ll be one?’ demanded Yuri, going back to answering a question with a question. ‘Can’t you honestly conceive this being anything but a debacle, resulting in a worse inquiry than last time? And punishment worse than last time?’
‘It’s a possibility,’ Solov conceded. He’d abdicated almost completely, just wanting the conversation to continue, to hear what the other man had to say: to learn what the escape could be.
But Yuri was not prepared to abandon the pressure quite so soon. He said: ‘You didn’t query the order?’
