Page 183 of Cry Havoc

“Oh?”

“He had just left the opera. His seat was next to yours. There was harp sheet music in his pocket. You don’t play the harp, do you?” Lavrinenko asked.

“No, Director.”

“But your wife did.”

“She did.”

“There is something else. When treated with chemicals a funny thing happened. Do you know what it was?”

Penkovsky’s eyes hardened.

“Invisible ink appeared on the sheet music in handwriting that matches yours. Can you explain that?”

The deputy director began to perspire.

“It was not difficult, Anatoly. A list of those in Moscow who know about the American POWs in Siberia is quite short. Their homes and offices were all searched. They were put under surveillance as were their spouses and children. Everyone with whom they came into contact was also investigated. All came up clean, except you. You have sheet music for the harp in your flat, yet you have no harp. That could easily be explained. What could not be easily explained was the one person other than your driver with whom you spoke for any length of time. Had you a lot of friends, this would have taken longer, but the only person outside of this building that you had any interaction with is the man who sat next to you at the opera. You really do lead a sad and solitary life.”

Lavrinenko turned to the window and looked out over his domain.

“Do you know what we did with the CIA man?”

“No, Director.”

“We let him go. He stuck to his legend. His backstory was almost perfect. We could have taken things a step further in the Lubyanka basement, but I decided there was another play. Do you know what it was?”

Penkovsky did not respond.

“We kept him for three days. No physical coercion. We allowed himto think we bought his story. Then we returned his belongings and told him that everything had checked out. We even apologized for the inconvenience. Why? Because we had substituted a new note forged in your handwriting using the same method of cerium oxalate paper transfer on the same music sheets.”

“What did it say?”

“It exposed Allister Desmond.”

“Desmond? Why?”

“Anatoly, have I misjudged your analytical prowess? Think about it.”

Penkovsky took a moment, thinking it through.

“Because the Americans knew someone was passing us classified keying material and that we had access to the encryption machines from thePueblo,” he said. “Major Dvornikov knew we had the machines and now had the ability to decrypt American communications, but he didn’t know who was giving us the keys. You gave them Desmond.”

“Can you tell me why?” Lavrinenko asked.

“To protect John Walker. Walker was assessed to be the more valuable spy. Giving up one would protect the other. Now the Americans think they have plugged their leak.”

“Bravo, Anatoly, that is what you say at the opera, isn’t it? In your letter to the Americans, you were offering up a spy, but you did not name him. You intended to hold that information until you got what you wanted, which was eventually to defect, is that right? Now that will not happen. You pushed it too far. Desmond is sacrificed and Walker will continue to pass us keying material for years to come. He has expressed interest in recruiting others, others in his own family, and creating a true spy ring, one that gives us a seat in the inner sanctum of the Pentagon.”

Penkovsky looked down in defeat.

“If only you had given both Walker and Desmond up earlier. Why didn’t you? Don’t answer. I think I know. You wanted to bleed us slowly, to see us die a slow death as did your son.”

“Fuck you.”

“Tuberculosis, wasn’t it? We never talked about it.”

“You never asked.”