KGB and CIA officers spent their time killing people-with the inevitable retaliation and counter-retaliation-the primary job would not get done. And so the business of intelligence was a civilized, predictable business. In third- world countries, different rules applied, of course, but in America and the Soviet Union, the rules were assiduously followed.
Until now, that is-unless I'm supposed to believe that this poor, sad bastard was murdered by auto-parts thieves! Vatutin wondered if CIA might have contracted the job out to a criminal gang-he suspected that the Americans used Soviet criminals for some things too sensitive for their own lily-white hands. That would not be a technical violation of the rules, would it? He wondered if the First Directorate men ever used a similar dodge
All he knew right now was that the next step in the courier chain was dead at his feet, and with it his only hope of linking the microfilm to the American spy in the Defense Ministry. Vatutin corrected himself: He also knew that he'd have to report this to the Chairman in about six hours. He needed a drink. Vatutin shook his head and looked down at what was left of his suspect. The snow was falling so rapidly that you couldn't see the blood anymore.
'You know, if they'd only been a little bit more clever putting his body on the tracks, we might have written it off to an accident,' another KGB officer observed. Despite the horrendous work done to the body by the wheels of the locomotive, it was clear that Altunin's throat had been expertly sliced by a narrow-bladed knife. Death, the responding physician reported, could not have taken longer than a minute. There were no signs of a struggle. The victim's-the traitor's! — hands were not bruised or cut. He hadn't fought back against whoever had killed him. Conclusion: His killer was probably known to him. Might it have been an American?
'First thing,' Vatutin said. 'I want to know if any Americans were away from their flats between eighteen and twenty-three hours.' He turned. 'Doctor!'
'Yes, Colonel?'
'Time of death again?'
'Judging by the temperature of the larger pieces, between twenty-one and midnight. Earlier rather than later, I think, but the cold and snow cover complicate matters.' Not to mention the state of the remains, he didn't add.
Vatutin turned back to his principal assistant. 'Any who were away from quarters, I want to know who, where, when, and why.'
'Step up surveillance of all the foreigners?' the man wondered aloud.
'I'll have to go to the Chairman for that, but I'm thinking about it. I want you to speak to the chief Militia investigator. This is to be classified most-secret. We don't need a mob of fumbling policemen messing this affair up.'
'Understood, Comrade Colonel. They'd only be interested in recovering the auto parts anyway,' the man noted sourly. This perestroika business is turning everyone into a capitalist!
Vatutin walked over to the locomotive driver. 'It's cold, isn't it?'
The message was received. 'Yes, Comrade. Perhaps you'd like something to take away the chill?'
'That would be very kind of you, Comrade Engineer.
'My pleasure, Comrade Colonel.' The engine driver produced a small bottle. As soon as he'd seen that the man was a colonel of the KGB, he'd thought himself doomed. But the man seemed decent enough. His colleagues were businesslike, their questions had been reasonable ones, and the man was almost at ease-until he realized that he could be punished for having a bottle on the job. He watched the man take a long pull, then hand the bottle back.
'Spasibo,' the KGB man said, and walked off into the snow.
Vatutin was waiting in the Chairman's anteroom when he arrived. He'd heard that Gerasimov was a serious worker, always at his desk by seven-thirty. The stories were right. He came through the door at seven twenty-five and waved for the 'Two' man to follow him into his office.
'Well?'
'Altunin was killed late last night in the railyards outside the Moskvich Auto Factory. His throat was cut and his body left on the tracks, where a switch engine ran over it.'
'You're sure it's him?' Gerasimov asked with a frown.
'Yes, he was positively identified. I recognized the face myself. He was found next to a railcar that had ostensibly been broken into, and some auto parts were missing.'
'Oh, so he stumbled upon a gang of black marketeers and they conveniently killed him?'
'So it is meant to appear, Comrade Chairman.' Colonel Vatutin nodded. 'I find the coincidence unconvincing, but there is no physical evidence to contradict it. Our investigations are continuing. We are now checking to see if any of Altunin's comrades from his military service live in the area, but I am not hopeful along these lines.'
Gerasimov rang for tea. His secretary appeared in an instant, and Vatutin realized that this had to be part of the regular morning routine. The Chairman was taking things more easily than the Colonel had feared. Party man or not, he acted like a professional:
'So, to this point, we have three confessed document couriers, and one more positively identified, but unfortunately dead. The dead one was seen in close physical proximity to the senior aide of the Defense Minister, and one of the live ones has identified his contact as a foreigner, but cannot positively identify his face. In short, we have the middle of this line, but neither end.'
'That is correct, Comrade Chairman. Surveillance of the two Ministry colonels continues. I propose that we step up surveillance of the American Embassy community.'
Gerasimov nodded. 'Approved. It's time for my morning brief. Keep pushing for a break in the case. You look better now that you've cut back on your drinking, Vatutin.'
'I feel better, Comrade Chairman,' he admitted.
'Good.' Gerasimov rose, and his visitor did the same. 'Do you really think that our CIA colleagues killed their own man?'
'Altunin's death was most convenient for them. I realize that this would be a violation of our-our agreement along these lines, but-'
'But we are probably dealing with a highly placed spy, and they are undoubtedly most interested in protecting him. Yes, I understand that. Keep pushing, Vatutin,' Gerasimov said again.
Foley was already at his office also. On his desk were three film cassettes for CARDINAL. The next problem was delivering the damned things. The business of espionage was a mass of interlocking contradictions. Some parts of it were devilishly hard. Some carried the sort of danger that made him wish he'd stayed with the New York Times. But others were so simple that he could have had one of his kids handle it. That very thought had occurred to him several times-not that he'd ever entertain it seriously, but in moments when his mind was affected by a few stiff drinks, he'd muse that Eddie could take a piece of chalk and make a certain mark in a certain place. From time to time, embassy personnel would walk about Moscow doing things that were just slightly out of the ordinary. In summer, they'd wear flowers in buttonholes, and remove them for no apparent reason-and the KGB officers watching them would anxiously scan the sidewalks for the person at whom the 'signal' was aimed. Year round, some would wander about, taking photographs of ordinary street scenes. In fact, they scarcely needed to be told. Some of the embassy people merely had to act like their eccentric American selves to drive the Russians nuts. To a counterespionage officer, anything could be a secret sign: a turned-down sun visor in a parked car, a package left on its front seat, the way the wheels were pointed. The net effect of all these measures, some deliberate, some merely random, had 'Two' men scurrying all over the city running down things that simply didn't exist. It was something Americans did better than Russians, who were too regimented to act in a truly random fashion, and it was something that made life thoroughly miserable for the counterspies of the Second Chief Directorate.
But there were thousands of them, and only seven hundred Americans (counting dependents) assigned to the embassy.
And Foley still had the film to deliver. He wondered why it was that CARDINAL had always refused to use dead-drops. It was the perfect expedient for this. A dead-drop was typically an object that looked like an ordinary stone, or anything else common and harmless, hollowed out to hold the thing to be transferred. Bricks were especially favored in Moscow, as the city was mainly one of brick, many of which were loose due to the uniformly poor workmanship found here, but the variety of such devices was endless.
On the other hand, the variety of ways to make a brush-pass was limited, and depended upon the sort of timing to be found in a backfield. Well, the Agency hadn't given him this job because it was easy. He couldn't risk it
