Wild Cards: Aces Abroad

  “Now . . . if you know anything at all about me”—Polyakov was certain that Mólniya knew as much about him as the KGB, which meant that Mólniya did not know one very important thing—“you know that I’m fair. I’m old, I’m fat, I’m faceless . . . but I’m objective. I’m retiring in four months. I have nothing to gain from causing a new war between our two services.”

  Mólniya merely returned his gaze. Well, Polyakov expected as much. The rivalry between the GRU and KGB had been bloody. At various times in the past each service had managed to have the leaders of its rival shot. There is nothing longer than institutional memory.

  “I see.” Polyakov stood up. “Sorry to have troubled you, Major. Obviously the General Secretary was mistaken . . . you have nothing to say to me—”

  “Ask your questions!”

  Forty minutes later Polyakov sighed and sat back in his chair. Turning slightly, he could see out the window. GRU headquarters was called the Aquarium because of its glass walls. It fit. Polyakov had noticed, as he was driven by another GRU officer past the Institute of Space Biology, which, together with the little-used Frunze Central Airport, surrounded the Aquarium, that this building—perhaps the most inaccessible, indeed even invisible place in the city of Moscow—appeared to be almost transparent. A fifteen-story building with nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows!

  To find it inviting was a mistake. Polyakov pitied the theoretical casual visitor. Before even reaching the inner circle, one had to penetrate an outer one consisting of three secret aircraft design bureaus, the even more secret Chelomei spacecraft design bureau, or the Red Banner Air Force Academy.

  At the far end of the courtyard below, nestled against the impenetrable concrete wall that surrounded the Aquarium, was a crematorium. The story was that, in the final interview before acceptance into the GRU, every candidate was shown this squat green building and a special film.

  The film was of the 1959 execution of GRU Colonel Popov, who had been caught spying for the CIA. Popov was strapped to a stretcher with unbreakable wire and simply fed—alive—into the flames. The process was interrupted so that the coffin of another, substantially more honored GRU employee could be consigned first.

  The message was clear: You leave the GRU only through the crematorium. We are more important than family, than country. A man such as Mólniya, trained by such an organization, was not vulnerable to any of Polyakov’s interrogator’s tricks. In almost an hour all Polyakov had pried out of him were operational details . . . names, dates, places, events. Material that Polyakov already possessed. There was something more to be learned—a secret of some kind—Polyakov was sure of it. A secret no one else had been able to get out of Mólniya. A secret that, perhaps, no one but Polyakov knew existed. How could he get Mólniya to talk?

  What could be more important to this man than that crematorium?

  “It must be difficult being a Soviet ace.”

  If Mólniya was surprised by Polyakov’s sudden statement, he didn’t show it. “My power is just another tool to be used against the imperialists.”

  “I’m sure that’s what your superiors would like to think. God forbid you should use it for yourself.” Polyakov sat down again. This time he poured himself a glass of water. He held out the bottle to Mólniya, who shook his head. “You must be tired of the jokes by now. Water and electricity.”

  “Yes,” Mólniya said tiredly. “I have to be careful when it rains. I can’t take baths. The only water I like is snow. . . . Given the number of people who know about me, it’s amazing how many jokes I’ve heard.”

  “They have your family, don’t they? Don’t answer. It’s not something I know. It’s just . . . the only way to control you.”

  The wild card virus was relatively dissipated by the time it reached the Soviet Union, but it was still strong enough to create jokers and aces, and to cause the creation of a secret state commission to deal with the problem. In typical Stalinist fashion aces were segregated from the population and “educated” in special camps. Jokers simply disappeared. In many ways it was worse than the Purge, which Polyakov had seen as a teenager. In the Thirties the knock on the door came for Party members . . . those with incorrect ambitions. But everyone was at risk during the Wild Card Purge.

  Even those in the Kremlin. Even those at the very highest levels.

  “I knew someone like you, Mólniya. I used to work for him, not far from here as a matter of fact.”

  For the first time Mólniya dropped his guard. He was genuinely curious. “Is the legend true?”

  “Which legend? That Comrade Stalin was a joker and died with a stake driven through his heart? Or that it was Lysenko who had been affected?” Polyakov could tell that Mólniya knew them all. “I must say I’m shocked to think that such fabrications are circulated by officers of military intelligence!”

  “I was thinking of the legend that there was nothing left of Stalin to bury . . . that the corpse displayed at the funeral was made up by the same geniuses who maintain Lenin’s.”

  Very close, Polyakov thought. What did Mólniya know? “You’re a war hero, Mólniya. Yet you ran from that building in Berlin like a raw recruit. Why?”

  This was another one of the old tricks, the sudden segue back to more immediate business.

  As Mólniya replied that he didn’t honestly remember running, Polyakov went around the table and, sliding a chair closer, sat down right next to him. They were so close that Polyakov could smell the soap and, under that, the sweat . . . and something that might have been ozone. “Can you tell when someone is an ace?”

  Finally Mólniya was getting nervous. “Not without some demonstration . . . no.”

  Polyakov lowered his voice and jabbed a finger at the Hero’s medal on Mólniya’s chest. “What do you think now?”

  Mólniya’s face flushed and tears formed in his eyes. One gloved hand slapped Polyakov’s away. It only lasted an instant.

  “I was burning up!”

  “Within seconds, yes. Burnt meat.”

  “You’re the one.” There was as much fascination—after all, they had a lot in common—as fear in Mólniya’s face. “That was another one of the legends, that there was a second ace. But you were supposed to be in the Party hierarchy, one of Brezhnev’s people.”

  Polyakov shrugged. “The second ace belongs to no one. He’s very careful about that. His loyalty is to the Soviet Union. To Soviet ideals and potential, not the pitiful reality.” He remained close to Mólniya. “And now you know my secret. One ace to another . . . what do you have to tell me?”

  It was good to leave the Aquarium. Years of institutional hatred had imbued the place with an almost physical barrier—like an electrical charge—that repelled all enemies, especially the KGB.

  Polyakov should have been feeling elated: he had gotten some very important information out of Mólniya. Even Mólniya himself did not know how important. No one knew why the Hartmann kidnapping had fallen apart, but what had happened to Mólniya could best be explained by the presence of a secret ace, one with the power to control men’s actions. Mólniya could not know, of course, that something much like this had happened in Syria. But Polyakov had seen that report. Polyakov was afraid he knew the answer.

  The man who might very well be the next president of the United States was an ace.

  ii.

  “The chairman will see you now.”

  To Polyakov’s surprise the receptionist was a young woman of striking beauty, a blonde straight out of an American movie. Gone was Seregin, Andropov’s old gatekeeper, a man with the physical appearance of a hatchet—appropriately enough—and a personality to match. Seregin was perfectly capable of letting a Politburo member cool his heels for eternity in this outer office, or if necessary, physically ejecting anyone foolish enough to make an unexpected call on the chairman of the Committee for State Security, the chief of the KGB.

  Polyakov imagined that this lissome woman was potentially just as lethal as Seregin; nevertheless, the who
le idea struck him as ludricrous. An attempt to put a smile on the face of the tiger. Meet your new, caring Kremlin. Today’s friendly KGB!

  Seregin was gone. But then, so was Andropov. And Polyakov himself was no longer welcome on the top floor . . . not without the chairman’s invitation.

  The chairman rose from his desk to kiss him, interrupting Polyakov’s salute. “Georgy Vladimirovich, how nice to see you.” He was directed to a couch—another new addition, some kind of conversational nook in the formerly Spartan office. “You’re not often seen in these parts.” By your choice, Polyakov wanted to say.

  “My duties have kept me away.”

  “Of course. The rigors of field work.” The chairman, who like most KGB chiefs since Stalin’s day was essentially a Party political appointee, had served the KGB as a snitch—a stukach—not an operative or analyst. In this he was the perfect leader of an organization consisting of a million stukachi. “Tell me about your visit to the Aquarium.”

  Quickly to business. Another sign of the Gorbachev style. Polyakov was thorough to the point of tedium in his replay of the interrogation, with one significant omission. He counted on the chairman’s famous impatience and wasn’t disappointed.

  “These operational details are all well and good, Georgy Vladimirovich, but wasted on poor bureaucrats, hmm?” A self-deprecating smile. “Did the GRU give you full and complete cooperation, as directed by the General Secretary.”

  “Yes . . . alas,” Polyakov said, earning the chairman’s equally famous laugh.

  “Do you have enough information to salvage our European operations?”

  “Yes.”

  “‘How will you proceed? I understand that the German networks are being rolled up. Every day Aeroflot brings our agents back to us.”

  “Those not held for trial in the West, yes,” Polyakov said. “Berlin is a wasteland for us now. Most of Germany is barren and will be for years.”

  “Carthage.”

  “But we have other assets. Deep-cover assets that have not been utilized in years. I propose to activate one known as the Dancer.”

  The chairman drew out pen and made a note to have the Dancer file brought up from the registry. He nodded. “How much time will this . . . recovery take, in your honest estimation?”

  “At least two years.”

  The chairman’s gaze drifted off. “Which brings me to a question of my own,” Polyakov persisted. “My retirement.”

  “Yes, your retirement.” The chairman sighed. “I think the only course is to bring Yurchenko in on this as soon as possible, since he’ll be the one who has to finish the job.”

  “Unless I postpone my retirement.” Polyakov had said the unspeakable. He watched the chairman make an unaccustomed search for an unprogrammed response.

  “Well. That would be a problem, wouldn’t it? All the papers have been signed. Yurchenko’s promotion is already approved. You will be promoted to general and will receive your third Hero’s medal. We’re prepared to announce it at the plenum next month.” The chairman leaned forward. “Is it money, Georgy Vladimirovich? I shouldn’t mention this, but there is often a pension bonus for extremely . . . valuable service.”

  It wasn’t going to work. The chairman might be a political hack, but he was not without his skills. He had been ordered to clean house at the KGB and clean house he would. Right now he feared Gorbachev more than he feared an old spy.

  Polyakov sighed. “I only want to finish my job. If that is not the . . . desire of the Party, I will retire as agreed.”

  The chairman had been anticipating a fight and was relieved to have won so quickly. “I understand the difficulty of your situation, Georgy Vladimirovich. We all know your tenacity. We don’t have enough like you. But Yurchenko is capable. After all . . . you trained him.”

  “I’ll brief him.”

  “I tell you what,” the chairman said. “Your retirement doesn’t take effect until the end of August.”

  “My sixty-third birthday.”

  “I see no reason why we should deprive ourselves of your talents until that date.” The chairman was writing notes to himself again. “This is highly unusual, as you well know, but why don’t you go with Yurchenko? Hmm? Where is this Dancer?”

  “France, at the moment, or England.”

  The chairman was pleased. “I’m sure we can think of worse places for a business trip.” He wrote another note with his pen. “I will authorize you to accompany Yurchenko . . . to assist in the transition. Charming bureaucratic phrase.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Nonsense, you’ve earned it.” The chairman got up and went to the sideboard. That, at least, had not changed. He drew out a bottle of vodka that was almost empty, pouring two glasses full, which finished it. “A forbidden toast—the end of an era!” They drank.

  The chairman sat down again. “What will happen to Mólniya? No matter how badly he bungled Berlin, he’s too valuable to waste in that horrible furnace of theirs.”

  “He’s teaching tactics now, here in Moscow. In time, if he’s good, they may let him return to fieldwork.”

  The chairman shuddered visibly. “What a mess.” His tight smile showed a pair of steel teeth. “Having a wild card working for you! I wonder, would one ever sleep?”

  Polyakov drained his glass. “I wouldn’t.”

  iii.

  Polyakov loved the English newspapers. The Sun . . . The Mirror . . . The Globe . . . with their screaming three-inch headlines about the latest royal rows and their naked women, they were bread and circus rolled into one. At the moment some M P was on trial, accused of hiring a prostitute for fifty pounds and then, in The Sun’s typically restrained words, “Not getting his money’s worth!” (“‘It was over so fast,’ tart claims!”) Which was the greater sin? Polyakov wondered.

  A tiny deck on that same front page mentioned that the Aces Tour had arrived in London.

  Perhaps Polyakov’s affection for the papers derived from professional appreciation. Whenever he was in the West, his legend or cover was that of a Tass correspondent, which had required him to master enough rudimentary journalistic skills to pass, though most Western reporters he met assumed he was a spy. He had never learned to write well—certainly not with the drunken eloquence of his Fleet Street colleagues—but he could hold his liquor and he could find a story.

  At that level, at least, journalism and intelligence were not mutually exclusive.

  Alas, Polyakov’s old haunts were unsuitable for a rendezvous with the Dancer. Recognition of either of them would be disastrous for both. They could not, in fact, use a public house of any kind.

  To make matters worse, the Dancer was an uncontrolled agent—a “cooperative asset” to use Moscow Center’s increasingly bland jargon. Polyakov had not even seen him in over twenty years, and that had been an accidental encounter following even more years of separation. There were no prearranged signals, no message drops, no intermediaries, no channels to let the Dancer know that Polyakov had come to collect.

  Though the Dancer’s notoriety made certain kinds of contacts impossible, it made Polyakov’s job easier in one respect: If he wanted to know how to find this particular asset—

  —all he had to do was pick up a paper.

  His assistant, and future successor, Yurchenko, was busy ingratiating himself with the London rezident; both men showed only a passing interest in Polyakov’s comings and goings, joking that their soon-to-be-retired friend was spending his time with King’s Cross whores—“Just be sure you don’t wind up in the newspapers, Georgy Vladimirovich,” Yurchenko had teased. “If you do . . . at least get your money’s worth!”—since such behavior by Polyakov was not unprecedented. Well . . . he had never married. And years in Germany, particularly in Hamburg, had given him a taste for pretty young mouths at affordable prices. It was also quite true that the KGB did not trust an agent who possessed no notable weakness. One vice was tolerated, so long as it was one of the controllable ones—alcohol, money, or women—ra
ther than, say, religion. A dinosaur such as Polyakov—who had worked for Beria, for God’s sake!—having a taste for honey . . . well, that was considered rakish, even charming.

  From the Tass office near Fleet, Polyakov went alone to the Grosvenor House Hotel, riding in one of the famous English black cabs—this one actually belonged to the Embassy—down Park Lane to Knightsbridge to Kensington Road. It was early on a work day and the cab crawled through a sea of vehicles and humanity. The sun was up, burning off the morning haze. It was going to be a beautiful London spring day.

  At Grosvenor House, Polyakov had to talk his way past several very obvious guards while noting the presence of several discreet ones. He was allowed as far as the concierge station, where he found, to his annoyance, another young woman in place of the usual old scout. This one even looked like the chairman’s new gatekeeper. “Will the house telephone put me through to the floors where the Aces Tour is staying?”

  The concierge frowned and framed a reply. Clearly the tour’s presence here was not common knowledge, but Polyakov preempted her questions, as he had gotten past the guards, by presenting his press credentials. She examined them—they were genuine in any case—then guided him to the telephones. “They might not be answering at this hour, but these lines are direct.”

  “Thank you.” He waited until she had withdrawn, then asked the operator to ring through to the room number one of the Embassy’s footmen had already provided.

  “Yes?” Polyakov had not expected the voice to change, yet he was surprised that it had not.

  “It’s been a long time . . . Dancer.”

  Polyakov was not surprised by the long silence at the other end. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

  He was pleased. The Dancer retained enough tradecraft to keep the telephone conversations bland. “Didn’t I promise that I would give you a visit someday?”