Red Rabbit

Pistol range, Rozhdestvenskiy grasped at once. “I don’t know enough myself. That would be a job for Colonel Goderenko and his people. The Pope gives audiences for the faithful. How you get into those, I do not know. He also appears in public for various purposes. I do not know how such things are scheduled.”

“Let’s find out,” Andropov suggested lightly. “Report directly to me. Do not discuss this with anyone else.”

“Yes, Comrade Chairman,” the colonel said, coming to attention with the receipt of the order. “The priority?”

“Immediate,” Andropov replied, in the most casual of voices.

“I shall see to it myself, Comrade Chairman,” Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy promised. His face revealed nothing of his feelings. Indeed, he had few of those. KGB officers were not trained to have much in the way of scruples, at least outside politics, in which they were supposed to have a great deal of faith. Orders from above carried the force of Divine Will. Aleksey Nikolay’ch’s only concerns at the moment were centered on the potential political fallout to be had from dropping this particular nuclear device. Rome was more than a thousand kilometers from Moscow, but that would probably not be far enough. However, political questions were not his to ask, and he scrubbed the matter from his mind—for the moment, anyway. While he did so, the intercom box on the Chairman’s desk buzzed. Andropov flipped the top-right switch.

“Yes?”

“Your first appointment is here, Comrade Chairman.” His secretary announced.

“How long will this take, Aleksey, do you suppose?”

“Several days, probably. You want an immediate assessment, I assume, followed by what sort of specific data?”

“Correct. For the moment, just a general assessment,” Yuriy Vladimirovich said, “We’re not planning any sort of operation just yet.”

“By your order, Comrade Chairman. I’ll go down to the communications center directly.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Aleksey.”

“I serve the Soviet Union” was the automatic reply. Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy came to attention again, then left-faced for the door. He had to duck his head going out into the secretary’s room, as most men did, and from there he turned right and out into the corridor.

So, how does one get close to the Pope, this Polish priest? Rozhdestvenskiy wondered. It was, at least, an interesting theoretical question. KGB abounded with theoreticians and academics who examined everything, from how to assassinate chiefs of foreign governments— useful in the event that a major war was about to be undertaken—to the best way to steal and interpret medical records from hospitals. The broad scope of KGB field operations knew few limitations.

One could not have guessed much from the colonel’s face as he walked to the elevator bank. He pushed the button and waited for forty seconds until the doors opened.

“Basement,” he told the operator. The elevators all had operators. Elevators were too good a potential dead-drop location to leave unattended. Even then, the operators were trained to look for brush-passes. Nobody was trusted in this building. There were too many secrets to be had. If there were one single place in the Soviet Union in which an enemy would want to place a penetration agent, this building was it, and so everyone looked at everyone else in some sort of black game, always watching, measuring every conversation for an inner meaning. Men made friends here as they did in every walk of life. They chatted about their wives and children, about sports and weather, about whether to buy a car or not, about getting a dacha in the country for the lucky ones with seniority. But rarely did men chat about work, except with their immediate workmates, and then only in conference rooms where such things were supposed to be discussed. It never occurred to Rozhdestvenskiy that these institutional restrictions reduced productivity and might actually hinder the efficiency of his agency. That circumscription was just part of the institutional religion of the Committee for State Security.

He had to pass a security checkpoint to enter the communications room. The watch NCO checked his photo pass and waved him through without much in the way of acknowledgment.

Rozhdestvenskiy had been here before, of course, often enough that he was known by face and name to the senior operators, and he knew them. The desks were arranged with a lot of space between them, and the background noise of the teleprinters prevented ordinary conversation from being overheard at a distance of more than three or four meters, even by the most sensitive ears. This, and nearly everything else about the arrangement of the room, had evolved over the years until the security provisions were as close to perfect as anyone could imagine, though that didn’t keep the efficiency experts on the third floor from wandering about with their scowls, always looking for something wrong. He walked to the desk of the senior communications watch .officer.

“Oleg Ivanovich,” he said in greeting.

Zaitzev looked up to see his fifth visitor of the young day, the fifth visitor and the fifth interruption. It was often a curse being the senior watch officer here, especially on the morning shift. The overnight watch was boring, but at least you could work in a straight line.

“Yes, Colonel, what can I do for you this morning?” he asked pleasantly, junior officer to senior.

“A special message to Station Rome, personal to the rezident. I think a one-time pad for this one. I’d prefer that you handle it yourself.” Instead of having a cipher clerk do the encryption, he didn’t say. This was somewhat unusual, and it pricked Zaitzev’s interest. He would have to see it anyway. Eliminating the cipher clerk just halved the number of people that would see this particular message.

“Very well.” Captain Zaitzev took up a pad and pencil. “Go on.”

“MOST SECRET. IMMEDIATE AND URGENT.

FROM MOSCOW CENTRE, OFFICE OF CHAIRMAN.

To COLONEL RUSLAN BORISSOVICH GODERENKO, REZIDENT, ROME.

MESSAGE FOLLOWS: ASCERTAIN AND REPORT MEANS OF GETTING PHYSICALLY CLOSE TO THE POPE. ENDS.”

“That’s all?” Zaitzev asked, surprised. “And if he asks what that means? It’s not very clear in its intent.”

“Ruslan Borissovich will understand what it means,” Rozhdestvenskiy assured him. He knew that Zaitzev wasn’t asking anything he shouldn’t. One-time cipher pads were a nuisance to use, and so messages sent that way were supposed to be explicit in all details, lest the back-and-forth clarification messages compromise the communications links. As it was, this message would be telexed, and so was certain to be intercepted, and equally certain to be recognized by its formatting as a one-time-pad encipherment, hence a message of some importance. American and British code-breakers would probably attack it, and everyone was wary of them and their clever tricks. The West’s damned intelligence agencies worked so closely together.

“If you say so, Comrade Colonel. I’ll send it out within the hour.” Zaitzev checked the wall clock to make sure he could do that. “It should be on his desk when he gets into his office.”

It will take twenty minutes for Ruslan to decrypt it, Rozhdestvenskiy estimated. Then will he query us about it, as Zaitzev suggests? Probably. Goderenko is a careful, thorough man—and politically astute. Even with Andropov’s name at the top, Ruslan Borissovich will be curious enough to ask for a clarification.

“If there is a reply, call me as soon as you have the clear text.”

“You are the point of contact for this line?” Zaitzev asked, just to make sure he routed things correctly. After all, the message header, as this colonel had dictated it to him, said “Office of the Chairman.”

“That is correct, Captain.”

Zaitzev nodded, then handed the message blank to Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy for his signature/confirmation. Everything in KGB had to have a paper trail. Zaitzev looked down at the checklist. Message, originator, recipient, encryption method, point of contact… yes, he had everything, and all spaces were properly signed. He looked up. “Colonel, it will go out shortly. I will call you to confirm transmission time.” He would also send a paper record upstairs for the permanent operations files. He made a final written notation and handed off the carbon copy.

“Here’s the dispatch number. It will also be the operation-reference number until such time as you change it.”

“Thank you, Captain.” The colonel took his leave.

Oleg Ivanovich looked again at the wall clock. Rome was three hours behind Moscow time. Ten or fifteen minutes for the rezident to clear-text the message—the field people were so clumsy at