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Although Monk was junior, the Chief of Station agreed it was his ball game. The “play” Monk used was the enlightened-against-the-warmongers theme. Mikhail Gorbachev, he pointed out, was hugely popular in the States. This Kruglov already knew and it gratified him. He was very much a Gorbachev man.
Gorby, suggested Monk, was genuinely trying to dismantle the war machine and bring peace and trust between their two peoples. The trouble was, there were still entrenched Cold War warriors on both sides, even right in the heart of the Soviet Foreign Ministry. They would try to sabotage the process. It would be so helpful if Kruglov could alert his new pal to what was really going on inside Moscow’s Foreign Ministry. Kruglov must have known by then to whom he was talking, but he evinced no surprise.
To Monk, who had already developed a passion for ga
me fishing, it was like pulling in a tuna that had accepted the inevitable. Kruglov got his dollars, and a communications package. Details of personal plans, position, and access should be sent in secret ink on a harmless letter to a live letter box in East Berlin. Hard intelligence—documents—should be photographed and passed to the CIA Moscow via one of two drops in the city.
They embraced when they parted, Russian-style.
“Don’t forget, Valeri,” said Monk. “We ... us … we, the good guys, are winning. Soon all this nonsense will be over and we will have helped it happen. If ever you need me, just call and I’ll come.”
Kruglov flew home to Moscow and Monk returned to Langley.
¯
“BORIS, here. I’ve got it!”
“Got what?”
“The photograph. The picture you wanted. The file came back to Homicide. I pinched one of the best prints in the bunch. The eyes are closed so it doesn’t look so bad.”
“Good, Boris. Now I have in my jacket pocket an envelope with five hundred pounds in it. But there’s something else I need you to do. Then that envelope grows fatter. It contains one thousand British pounds.”
In his phone booth Inspector Novikov took a deep breath. He could not even work out how many hundreds of millions of rubles that sort of envelope could buy. Over a year’s salary anyway.
“Go on.”
“I want you to go to see the director in charge of all personnel and staff at the headquarters of the UPF Party and show it to him.”
“The what?”
“The Union of Patriotic Forces.”
“What the hell have they got to do with it?”
“I don’t know. Just an idea. He might have seen the man before.”
“Why should he?”
“I don’t know, Boris. He might have. It’s just an idea.”
“What excuse do I give?”
“You’re a homicide detective. You’re on a case. You’re following a lead. The man may have been seen hanging around party headquarters. Perhaps he was trying to break in. Did any of the guards see him lurking about in the street. That sort of thing.”
“All right. But these are important people. If I get busted, it’s your fault.”
“Why should you get busted? You’re a humble cop doing his job. This desperado was seen in the neighborhood of Mr. Komarov’s dacha off Kiselny Boulevard. It’s your duty to bring it to their attention, even if he’s dead. He might have been part of a gang. He might have been casing the joint. You’re watertight. Just do it, and the thousand pounds is yours.”
Yevgeni Novikov grumbled some more and hung up. These Anglichani, he reflected, were bloody mad. The old fool had only broken into one of their flats, after all. But for a thousand pounds, it was worth the trouble of asking.
Moscow, October 1987
COLONEL Anatoli Grishin was frustrated, as in the manner of one whose high point of achievement was seemingly over, with nothing more to do.
The last of the interrogations of the agents betrayed by Ames was long over, the last drop of recollection and information squeezed from the trembling men. There had been twelve of them living in the weeping basements below Lefortovo, to be brought up on demand to confront the question masters from the First and Second Chief Directorates, or taken back to Grishin’s special room in the event of recalcitrance or loss of memory.
Two, against Grishin’s pleading, had received only long terms in labor camps instead of death. This was because they had worked only a very short time for the CIA or been too lowly to have done much damage. The rest had received their death sentences. Nine had been executed, taken to the graveled courtyard behind the sequestered prison wing, forced to kneel and to await the bullet into the back of the brain. Grishin had been present as senior officer on all occasions.