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But Monk was convinced Solomin was neither a fool nor a coward. There was a single word that, if he were writing under duress, he should avoid using at all costs, and another he should try to insert into the message. Even under duress he would probably be able to comply with one or other condition. His letter from Moscow contained the word that should be there and did not contain the one that should not. In other words, it seemed to be genuine.
Harry Gaunt had long agreed with Monk that Moscow, infested with KGB agents and watchers, was too risky. With a short-term diplomatic posting the Soviet Foreign Ministry would still want full details, which they would pass on to the Second Chief Directorate. Even disguised, Monk would be under surveillance throughout his stay and meeting the aide-de-camp of the Deputy Defense Minister in safety would be just about impossible. In any case, Solomin did not propose that.
He said he had a leave break due in late September and had been awarded a prize—a vacation apartment in the Black Sea resort of Gurzuf.
Monk checked it out. A small village on the coast of the Crimean peninsula, a renowned resort for the military and home to a major Defense Ministry hospital where injured or recuperating officers could convalesce in the sun.
Two former Soviet officers residing in the United States were consulted. Both agreed they had not been there but knew of Gurzuf—a beautiful former fishing village where Chekhov had lived in his villa by the sea fifty minutes by bus or twenty-five by taxi up the coast from Yalta.
Monk switched his research to Yalta. The USSR was still virtually a sealed country in many respects, and to fly into the area on a scheduled route was out of the question. The air route would be to Moscow, change for Kiev, change again for Odessa, and then to Yalta. There was no way a foreign tourist was going to make that route, and there was no particular reason why a foreign tourist would want to head for Yalta. It might be a Soviet resort, but a single foreigner would stand out like a sore thumb. He looked at the sea routes and got a break.
Ever hungry for foreign hard currency, the Moscow government allowed the Black Sea Shipping Company to run sea cruises of the Mediterranean. Although all the crews were Soviet, with a sprinkling of KGB agents among them (that went without saying), the passengers were mainly from the West.
Because of the cheapness of such cruises for Westerners, the passenger groups tended to be students, academics, senior citizens. There were three liners doing these cruises in the summer of 1986: the Litva, the Latvia, and the Armenia. The one that fitted September was the Armenia.
According to the London agent for the Black Sea Company, the liner would leave Odessa for the Greek port of Piraeus, mainly empty. From Greece she would head due west for Barcelona, then turn back via Marseilles, Naples, Malta, and Istanbul before heading into the Black Se
a for Varna on the coast of Bulgaria, then Yalta, and finally back to Odessa. The bulk of her Western passengers would join at Barcelona, Marseilles, or Naples.
At the end of July, with the cooperation of the British Security Service, a very skillful break-in was effected at the offices of the London-based agency of the shipping company. No trace of entry or exit was ever left. The bookings for the Armenia that had been made in London were photographed.
A study of these revealed a block booking for six members of the American-Soviet Friendship Society. Back in the States they were checked out. All appeared to be middle-aged, sincere, naïve, and dedicated to the improvement of American-Soviet relations. They also lived in or near the northeastern United States.
In early August Professor Norman Kelson of San Antonio joined the society and applied for its literature. From this he learned of the forthcoming expedition on the Armenia, boarding at Marseilles, and applied to join as the seventh member of the group. The Soviet organization Intourist saw no objection and the extra booking was made.
The real Norman Kelson was a former CIA archivist who had retired to San Antonio and bore a passing resemblance to Jason Monk although fifteen years older, a difference that would be made up with gray hair tint and smoked eyeglasses.
In mid-August Monk replied to Solomin that his friend would wait for him at the turnstile to the Yalta Botanical Gardens. The gardens are a famous landmark in Yalta, situated out of town, one-third of the way up the coast to Gurzuf. The friend would be there at noon on September 27 and 28.
¯
INSPECTOR Volsky was late for his lunch date so he strode rapidly through the corridors of the big gray edifice Petrovka that houses the headquarters of the Moscow militia. His friend was not in his office so he tried the squad room and found him talking to a bunch of colleagues.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said.
“No sweat, let’s go.”
There was no question of two men on their salaries eating out, but the militia provided a very low-budget canteen with a lunch voucher system and the food was adequate. Both men turned toward the door. Just inside it was a bulletin board. Volsky cast a glance at it and stopped dead.
“Come on,” said his friend. “There’ll be no tables left.”
“Tell me,” said Volsky when they were seated, each with a plate of stew and half a liter of beer. “The squad room …”
“What about it?”
“The bulletin board. Inside the door. There’s a picture. Sort of copy of a crayon drawing. Old guy with funny teeth. What’s the story?”
“Oh, that,” said Inspector Novikov, “our mystery man. Apparently some woman at the British Embassy had a break-in. Two guys. They didn’t steal anything but they trashed the place. She disturbed them so they knocked her out. But she caught a look at one of them.”
“When was this?”
“About two weeks ago, maybe three. Anyway, the embassy complained to the Foreign Ministry. They hit the roof and complained to Interior. They went ballistic and told Burglary Division to find the man. Someone made up a drawing. You know Chernov? No? Well, he’s the big investigator in Burglary; so he’s running around with his butt on fire because his career’s on the line, and getting nowhere. Even came down to us and stuck up one of his pictures.”
“Any leads?” asked Volsky.
“Nope. Chernov doesn’t know who he is or where he is. This stew has more fat and less meat every time I come here.”
“I don’t know who he is, but I know where he is,” said Volsky. Novikov paused with his beer glass halfway to his lips.