Ice Cold: Tales of Intrigue from the Cold War

COMRADE 35 ^{BY JEFFERY DEAVER}

To be summoned to the highest floor of GRU headquarters in Moscow made you immediately question your future.

Several fates might await.

One was that you had been identified as a counter-revolutionary or a lackey of the bourgeoisie imperialists. In which case your next address would likely be a gulag, which were still highly fashionable, even now, in the early 1960s, despite First Secretary and Premier Khrushchev’s enthusiastic denunciation of Comrade Stalin.

Another possibility was that you had been identified as a double agent, a mole within the GRU—not proven to be one, mind you, simply suspected of being one. Your fate in that situation was far simpler and quicker than a transcontinental train ride: a bullet in the back of the head, a means of execution the GRU had originated as a preferred form of execution, though the rival KGB had co-opted and taken credit for the technique.

With these troubling thoughts in mind and his army posture well in evidence, Major Mikhail Sergeyevich Kaverin strode toward the office to which he’d been summoned. The tall man was broad shouldered, columnar. He hulked, rather than walked. The Glavnoe Razvedyvatelnoe Upravlenie was the spy wing of the Soviet Armed Forces; nearly every senior GRU agent, including Kaverin, had fought the Nazis one meter at a time on the western front, where illness and cold and the enemy had quickly taken the weak and the indecisive. Only the most resilient had survived.

Nothing culls like war.

Kaverin walked with a slight limp, courtesy of a piece of shrapnel or a fragment of bullet in his thigh. An intentional gift from a German or an inadvertent one from a fellow soldier. He neither knew nor cared.

The trek from his present office—at the British Desk, downstairs—was taking some time. GRU headquarters was massive, as befitted the largest spy organization in Russia and, rumors were, the world.

Kaverin stepped into the ante-office of his superior, nodded at the aide-de-camp, who said the general would see him in a minute. He sat and lit a cigarette. He saw his reflection in a nearby glass-covered poster of Lenin. The Communist Party founder’s lean appearance was in marked contrast to Kaverin’s: He thought himself a bit squat of face, a bit jowly. The comrade major’s thick black hair was another difference, in sharp contrast to Lenin’s shiny pate. And while the communist revolutionary and first Premier of the Soviet Union had a goatee that gave him—with those fierce eyes—a demonic appearance, Kaverin was clean shaven, and his eyes, under drooping lids, were the essence of calm.

A deep pull on the cigarette. The taste was sour and he absently swatted away glowing flecks of cheap tobacco that catapulted from the end. He longed for better, but couldn’t spend the time to queue endlessly for the good Russian brands and he couldn’t afford the Western smokes on the black market. When the cigarette was half smoked, he stubbed it out and wrapped the remainder in a handkerchief, then slipped that into his brown uniform jacket.

He thought of the executions he’d witnessed—and participated in. Often, a last cigarette for the prisoner. He wondered if he’d just had his.

Of course, there was yet another fate that might await, having been summoned to this lofty floor of headquarters. Perhaps he was being rewarded. The Comrade General, speaking for the Chairman of the GRU or even the Presidium itself—the all-powerful Politburo—could be recognizing him for furthering the ideals of communism and the glory of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. In which case he would receive not a slug from a Makarov pistol, but a medal or commendation or perhaps a new rank (though not, of course, a raise in pay).

Then, however, his busy mind, his spy’s mind, came up with another negative possibility: The KGB had orchestrated a transgression to get him demoted or even ousted.

The soviet civilian spy outfit and the GRU hated each other—the KGB referred to their military counterparts contemptuously as “Boots,” because of the uniforms they wore in their official capacity. The GRU looked at the KGB as a group of effete elitists, who trolled for turncoats among the Western intelligentsia, men who could quote Marx from their days at Harvard or Cambridge but who never lived up to their promise of delivering nuclear secrets or rocket fuel formulas.

Since neither the KGB nor the GRU had exclusive jurisdiction in foreign countries, poaching was common. On several occasions in the past year Kaverin had run operations in England and the Balkans right under the nose of the KGB and turned an agent or assassinated a traitor before the civilian spies even knew he was in country.

Had the pricks from Lubyanka Square somehow put together a scandal to disgrace him?

But then, just as he grew tired of speculation, the door before him opened and he was ushered into the office of the man who was about to bestow one of several fates.

A train trip, a bullet, a medal, or—another endearing possibility in the Soviet Union—perhaps something wholly unexpected.

“You may smoke,” said the general.

Kaverin withdrew a new cigarette and lit it, marshaling more escaping sparks. “Thank you, sir.”

“Comrade Major, we have a situation that has arisen. It needs immediate attention.” The general was fat, ruddy and balding. The rumors were that, once, he had set down his rifle and chosen to strangle, rather than shoot, a Nazi who came at him with a bayonet on the outskirts of Berlin in 1945. One look at his hands and you could easily believe that.

“Yes, sir, whatever I might do.”

So far, this did not seem like a death sentence.

“Did you know Comrade Major Rasnakov? Vladimir Rasnakov?”

“Yes, I heard he suffered a heart attack. Died almost instantly.”

“It should be a lesson to us all!” The general pointed his cigarette at Kaverin. “Take the baths, exercise. Drink less vodka, eat less pork.”

The man’s rasping voice continued, “Comrade Rasnakov was on a very sensitive, very important assignment. His demise has come at a particularly inconvenient time, Comrade Major. From reading your dossier, you seem like a perfect replacement for him. You can drive, correct?”

“Of course.”

“And speak English fluently.”

“Yes.”

This was growing more intriguing by the moment.

The general fixed him with a fierce gaze of appraisal. Kaverin held the man’s eyes easily. “Now, let me explain. Comrade Rasnakov had a job that was vital to the cause of communist supremacy. He was in charge of protecting the lives of certain people within the United States—people who we have deemed indispensable to our interests.”

Because they were all trained soldiers, GRU agents often served as undercover bodyguards for valuable double-agents in enemy countries.

“I will gladly take over his tasks, sir.”

The vodka bottle thudded onto the middle of the desk. Glasses were poured and the men drank. Kaverin was moderate with alcohol—which put him in the minority of men in Russia. But, just like not uttering certain thoughts aloud, you never declined the offer to share a drink with a superior officer. Besides this was real vodka, good vodka. Made from corn. Although as a soldier and a member of the GRU, Kaverin had some privileges, that meant simply potatoes without frostbite, meat once a week instead of every other, and vodka that, while it didn’t poison you, came in a corked bottle with curious flecks afloat. (Unlike the KGB, whose agents, even those in the field, had the best liquor and food and never had to queue.)

The general’s voice diminished nearly to a whisper. “Intelligence was received from a trusted source in America about a forthcoming occurrence there. It is necessary that the man behind this event remains alive, at least until he completes what he intends.”

“Who is this person? An agent of ours? Of another service?”

The general stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. Kaverin noted he left a good inch and a half unsmoked. The ashtray was filled with such butts. Together they must have made up a full pack.

“No…” His voice was even softer now. And—astonishing—the comrade generally actually seemed uneasy. He tapped the top secret file before him. “As you’ll see in here, this man—Comrade Thirty-five, the code name we’ve given him—is not motivated by any overt desire to help the Soviet Union but that’s exactly what the effect of his actions will be—if he succeeds in his mission.” The general’s eyes were far more intense than his whispered voice as he said, “And it is up to you to make sure that he remains alive to do so.”

“Of course.”

“Now, Comrade Rasnakov learned that there are two men who intend to take the life of our American comrade by week’s end. That cannot happen. Now, read this file, Comrade Major. Study it. But make sure it does not leave the building. It is for your eyes only. It is perhaps the most sensitive document you will ever come in contact with.”

“Of course.”

“Learn all you can about Comrade Thirty-five and the two men who wish to harm him. Then make plans to leave immediately for America. You’ll meet with Comrade Colonel Nikolai Spesky, one of our GRU agents in place. He can provide weapons and updated intelligence.”

“Thank you for this opportunity, Comrade General.” Kaverin rose and saluted. The general saluted in return then said, “One more thing, Comrade Major.”

“Yessir.”

“Here.” The man handed him a packet of French cigarettes. “You must learn to smoke something that will not set fire to the carpet of your superior officers.”

Kaverin returned to his own small office, which offered a partial view of the airport; he would sometimes sit and look at airplanes on final approach. He found this relaxing.

He opened the file and began to read. He got no more than halfway through the first paragraph, however, then sat up with a start, electrified as he read what the mission would entail and who was involved.

Oh, my God…

Kaverin lit a cigarette—one of the new ones—and noted that for the first time in years his thick fingers were actually shaking.

But then, soldier that he was, he put aside his emotions at the momentous consequences of the assignment and got to work.

The flights were carefully planned to arouse the fewest suspicions of the enemy intelligence services.

For the trip Kaverin was dressed Western—a black fedora, a fake bespoke suit and white shirt and narrow black tie, like a funeral director, he thought. Which in a macabre way seemed appropriate. His route took him from Moscow to Paris on an Aeroflot TU-124, then to Heathrow. He connected there to a Trans-Canada Air Lines DC-8 bound for Montreal. Finally he flew from Canada into the United States, first port of call, Idlewild Airport in New York City.

Four hours later he disembarked in Miami.

Whereas New York had seemed hard as steel, edged and unyielding, the Floridian metropolis was soft, pastel, soothed by balmy breeze.

Kaverin walked from the airport terminal, inhaling deeply the fragrant air, and hailed a taxi.

The car—a huge Mercury—bounded into the street. As they drove, Kaverin stared at the palm trees, the bougainvillea and plants he’d never seen. He blinked to observe a flamingo in the front yard of a small bungalow. He’d seen the birds in Africa and believed they were water dwellers. He laughed when he realized the creature was a plastic decoration.

He regretted that dusk was arriving quickly, and soon there was nothing to see but lights.

In a half hour he was at the address he sought, a small, one-story office building, squatting in a sandy lot filled with unruly green groundcover. On the front window was a sign.

As good a cover as any for a spy operation, he reflected. After all, the company did do some transporting: stolen secrets and occasional bodies. And the proprietor’s pseudonym was a reasonable tinkering with the real name of the GRU agent who worked out of the facility.

Kaverin found the door locked and knocked. A moment later it flew open and there stood a round, broad-shouldered man in a short-sleeved beige shirt—with black vertical stripes of a chain design—and powder blue slacks. His shoes were white.

“Ah, Comrade!” Nikolai Spesky cried, warmly pumping his hand.

Kaverin frowned at the word, looking around at the other office buildings nearby.

Ushering him inside and locking the door behind them, Spesky laughed, and wrinkles rippled in his tanned face. “What are you worried about, Comrade? Microphones? It’s a different world here.”

“I suppose I am.”

“No, no, no. See here, to eavesdrop, the government must get the courts to approve it.”

“Which they surely do.”

“Ah, Comrade, not necessarily. You’d be surprised. And, what’s more, the CIA has no jurisdiction here.”

Kaverin shrugged. He took off his heavy jacket—the temperature was about 75 degrees.

“Sit!” Spesky said jovially.

The men lit cigarettes. Spesky seemed delighted Kaverin was the agent chosen to take over for Comrade Rasnakov. “You are quite famous,” Spesky said, though without the awe that would have made his comment awkward. “The vile traitor Penkovsky… The people owe you quite a debt, Comrade.”

Penkovsky was a GRU agent who spied for the British and Americans, his most valued contribution being providing information that helped Kennedy stand up to the Russians during the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962. He was, as Kaverin had learned, less motivated by ideology than by a desire to lead a decadent life in the West. Which he had—until caught by the Soviets and executed.

“I was merely one of a number of people who found the traitor.”

“Modest, modest… a good trait for a spy. We must remain unseen, anonymous, subtle. Only in that way can the exultant cause of Mother Russia and the ideology of Herren Marx and Engels, as espoused by our noble progenitor Comrade Lenin, be furthered for the glory of our cause and the people!”

Kaverin remained silent at this pronouncement. But then, as if he could not control himself, Spesky exploded with laughter. “I do a very good impersonation of the Premier, do I not?”

Khrushchev was notorious for his bombastic speeches, but Kaverin wouldn’t think of answering the question affirmatively, though Spesky was in fact spot on.

The man scoffed good-naturedly. “Ah, relax, relax, Comrade! We are field agents. The rules don’t apply to us.” His smile faded. “It’s a dangerous job we do and we are to be entitled to some indulgence, including poking fun at the people and the institutions taken far too seriously at home.” He patted his large belly. To Kaverin it resounded like a timpani. “I missed my lunch today, Comrade. I must eat something.” Squinting at his guest, the man asked, “Now, do you know of CARE packages?”

“Yes, indeed. They were a propaganda tool created by the West after the War for the purpose of exploiting the unfortunate and winning them to the cause of capitalism and imperialism.”

Spesky waved his hand impatiently. “You must learn, Comrade Major, that in this country not every comment is an invitation to a political statement. I was merely inquiring if you know the concept. Because I have received a CARE package, of sorts—from my wife in Moscow, and I have been waiting for your arrival to indulge.” He lifted onto his desk a large cardboard carton, labeled “Accounting forms,” and, with a locking-blade knife, sliced open the lid. He removed a bottle of good vodka—Stolichnaya—and tins of paté, smoked fish and oysters. He unwrapped a loaf of dark bread and smelled it. “Not bad. Not too moldy yet.”

They drank the vodka and ate the bread and paté, both of which were excellent. The bread didn’t taste the least moldy to Kaverin, and he had quite some intimate knowledge of bread in its final stages.

Tossing down a third small glass of vodka, Spesky said, “I will tell you the details of this assignment.” His face clouded over. “Now, our Comrade Thirty-five, the man you are to protect, is not a particularly likable fellow.”

“So I have read.”

“He acts impulsively, he speaks out when he should listen. Frankly I believe he is a cruel man and may be unstable. Accordingly he has made enemies.”

“The Comrade General told me there are two men who present an immediate threat.”

“Yes, that’s correct. They are U.S. citizens, though of Latin American extraction. Comrade Rasnakov learned that they plan to kill him sometime on Friday.” He slid a slim file across the battered desk. “Your job is to intercept them. Then communicate with them.”

“Communicate?”

“Yes, exactly. With one of these.” Spesky removed two pistols from his desk, along with two boxes of ammunition.

“You’re familiar with these?”

One was a Colt Woodsman, a small caliber, .22, but very accurate, thanks to the long barrel. The other was a large 1911-style Colt .45. “And you will need a car, Comrade,” Spesky told him. “I understand you can drive?”

A nod.

“Good. In the file you will find an address, an abandoned house. There’s a garage behind it, off an alley—‘garage’ they say here to mean not a repair station but a separate place to keep your car in, like a stable.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“In the garage is a Chevrolet Bel Air. The keys are hidden up under the front seat… Ah, I see you know not only guns but automobiles too, Comrade.”

Spesky had apparently noticed that Kaverin was smiling at the mention of the Bel Air.

“Now these are your targets.” Spesky opened the file and tapped the documents.

Kaverin read through the file carefully, noting facts about the two men whose mission was to kill Comrade 35—Luis Suarez and Carlos Barquín, both in their mid-thirties. Dangerous men, who were former prisoners. They had murdered before. Their round faces—both bisected with thick mustaches—looked sullen, and Barquín gave the impression of being stupid.

Kaverin, though, knew it was a mistake to underestimate your enemy; he’d seen too many soldiers and agents die because they had done just that. So he read carefully, learning every fact he might about the men.

According to Rasnakov’s sources, the two were presently traveling—whereabouts unknown—but would arrive in Texas day after tomorrow. The plan was to kill Comrade 35 that day. Spesky explained that Rasnakov had planned to lie in wait and kill them when they arrived at the boarding house. This would be Kaverin’s job now. He pushed the file back and placed the guns and ammunition in his attaché case.

Spesky then handed him an envelope. It contained one thousand dollars U.S. and another airline ticket. “Your flight’s tomorrow morning. You’ll stay at a hotel near the airport tonight.”

After calling for a taxi, Spesky poured more vodka and they ate the rest of the paté and some smoked oysters. Spesky asked about life back in Moscow and what were the latest developments at GRU headquarters. There was gossip about who had become nonpersons and an affair at a very high level, though Kaverin was careful not to mention any names. Spesky was delighted nonetheless.

Neither man, however, had any hesitation in sharing stories about the latest KGB cock-ups and scandals.

When the taxi arrived, Spesky shook Kaverin’s hand. Suddenly the brash spy seemed wistful, almost sad. “You will enjoy certain aspects of life here, Comrade. The weather, the food, the plenty, the women, and—not the least—the absence of spies and informers dogging you everywhere. Yet you will also find such freedom comes at a price. You will be alone much, and you will feel the consequences of that solitude in your soul. There is no one to look out for you, no one above to care for you. In the end, you will long to return home to Mother Russia. I know this for a fact, Comrade. I have eight months left here and yet already I am counting the days until I can fly back to her bosom.”

The flight the next morning, on a propeller-driven DC-7, was turbulent as the plane fought its way west through strong winds. The journey was so bad that the stewardesses, who were quite beautiful, could not serve breakfast. Kaverin, more irritated at that fact than scared, at least had managed to secure a vodka and he took comfort in sipping the drink and smoking nearly half a pack of Chesterfield cigarettes, which were marvelous, during the flight.

The weather broke and, as they descended, he could look down and see flat sandy earth for miles and miles, grass bleached by the season, occasional groves of trees. Cattle, lots of cattle.

The aircraft landed uneventfully and the passengers disembarked.

He took his attaché case, containing his guns and ammunition, from the plane’s overhead bin and walked down the stairs onto the tarmac.

Pausing and inhaling the petrol- and exhaust-laced air, Mikhail Sergeyevich Kaverin found himself content. Here he was in a country very different from that portrayed by the great propaganda mill of the Soviet empire. The people were friendly and courteous, the food and cigarettes plentiful and cheap, the workers content and comfortable, not the least oppressed by greedy capitalist robber barons. And the weather was far nicer than in Russia this time of year. And nearly everyone owned an automobile!

Kaverin strode into the lobby of Love Field in Dallas, Texas. He glanced at the front page of today’s morning newspaper, Thursday, November 21, 1963.

As he waited for his bus, at a weedy stop in Dallas, Lee Harvey Oswald was troubled.

People had been following him. He knew this for a fact.

People who wanted to do him harm.

The skinny, dark-haired man, in his mid-twenties, looked around him again. Was there someone watching him? Yes!

But no. It was just a shadow. Still, he wished he had brought his pistol with him.

He awakened early in his boarding house on Beckley Avenue in Oak Cliff and taken a bus to a stop near the Dobbs House Restaurant for breakfast. The food had been bad and he’d complained. He wondered why he kept going back there. Maybe I’m a creature of habit, he reflected. He’d heard the phrase on a TV show.

Was it Ozzie and Harriet? He’d wondered. He liked that show, partly because it echoed his nickname in the Marines. Ozzie Rabbit.

When he thought this, he remembered his days in the service and recalled the fight he’d gotten into with a sergeant and that made him angry once more.

As angry as he’d been with the waitress over the food.

Why do I keep going back there? he thought again. Looked around once more. He didn’t see any overt threats but he still had to be careful. Considering what he had planned for tomorrow. And considering that he knew people were after him, smart people. Ruthless ones.

The bus arrived and Oswald boarded it and rode to the place he worked, the Texas Book Depository on Elm Street and North Houston, across from Dealey Plaza. He climbed off the bus, and gazed about him once more, expecting to see one of the sullen faces of the men who he was sure were following him.

FBI maybe. Those bastards had been harassing Marina and their friends again.

Oh, he’d made some enemies in his day.

But in morning glare—it was a beautiful autumn day—he saw only housewives with perambulators and a few salesmen, a retired couple or two. Ranchers. Some Hispanic men…

Killers?

It was possible. Oswald grew alarmed and leapt into the shadows of the depository building to study them. But they showed no interest in him and strolled slowly to a landscaping truck, pulled out rakes and headed into the park across the street.

Despite the bristling of nerves up and down his back, Oswald noted that no one seemed to have much interest in him. He shivered again, though this was from the chill. He was wearing only a light jacket over his T-shirt, and he had a slight frame with little natural insulation.

Inside the depository he greeted fellow workers, nodding and smiling to some of them. And he got to work. It was while he was filling out paperwork for a book order that he happened to look down at a scar on his wrist. He was thinking of his attempt to become a Soviet citizen several years before. He was about to be deported but had intentionally cut himself to prolong his stay after his visa expired, and convince the Russians to accept him.

Which they had and they welcomed him as a comrade. But there was a lot of important work to do in this hemisphere and, with his Russian wife, he’d returned to the United States, where he’d resumed his procommunist and anti-American activities. But now, he wanted to return to Russia, for good, with Marina and their two baby girls.

There’d been a setback, though. An incident had occurred that had put his plans—and his life—at risk. After he finished his task tomorrow he wanted to go to Cuba for a while and then back to Russia. Just last month he’d gone to the Cuban consulate in Mexico City to get a visa to allow him to travel to Havana, but the bastards had given him the runaround. The officials had looked over his records and said he wasn’t welcome in Cuba. Go away. None of them understood what an important man he was, more important than his five-foot-nine, 135-pound frame suggested. None of them understood his great plans.

The rejection in Mexico City had sparked his terrible temper, and he’d said and done some things he shouldn’t have. The Cuban security force had been called and he’d fled the capital and eventually made his way back home.

Stupid, he told himself, making a scene like that. Like fighting with the waitress at the diner. He’d lost control and made a spectacle of himself.

“Stupid,” he raged aloud.

He shivered once more, this time from pure fury, not fear or from the chill. And gazed out the window of the depository, looking for people spying on him.

Fucking Cubans!

Well, start being smart now. He decided it wouldn’t be safe to go back to the boarding house. Usually he spent weekdays at the boarding house. Tonight he’d return to the Paines in Irving, stay the night. Considering what he was about to do tomorrow, he couldn’t afford any complications at the moment.

His serenity returned—thanks largely to a memory of his time in the Marines in 1954, specifically the day his firearms instructor had looked over his score on the rifle range and given him a nod (the man never smiled). “You did good, Ozzie. Those scores? You just earned yourself the rank of sharpshooter.”

Anthony Barter swung his slim frame out of the car.

He stretched.

The thirty-one-year-old was tempted to light a Winston, needed one bad, but his employer wouldn’t approve. It wasn’t like drinking—that was wholly forbidden—but even taking a fast drag could get you in hot water.

So he refrained.

An old Martin 4-0-4 roared overhead and skewed its way onto the runway at Love Field.

He straightened his narrow tie and his dark gray felt fedora, from which he’d long ago removed the green feather—very bad form, that.

Barter looked around, oriented himself and went to the Eastern Airlines luggage claim area. His long hands formed into fists, relaxed and contracted once more.

He found a supervisor, a heavyset, balding man, sweating despite the pleasantly cool temperature. He displayed his identification.

The man drawled, “Oh. Well. FBI.”

Barter was from New England; he’d been assigned to Texas, though, for ten years and recognized an accent from much further south, probably El Paso.

He explained he needed to find out about a passenger who’d arrived that morning from Miami. The supervisor almost seemed amused at the idea that luggage handlers could recognize a passenger, but he went off to gather his employees.

The Bureau’s New York field office had informed their colleagues in Dallas-Fort Worth that a man believed to be a Russian military intelligence agent had arrived in the country yesterday or today and continued on to Dallas. There’d been debate in New York and Washington about the purpose of the agent’s trip, if he was indeed an agent.

There was, of course, the question of Presidential security. Kennedy was coming to town tomorrow, and lately the threats against him had been numerous—thanks largely to the U.S.’s aiding Cuban rebels at the Bay of Pigs invasion, as well as Kennedy’s and his brother’s support for civil rights. (He’d kicked some Soviet ass last year, too, of course, with the missile blockade, but no one in national security believed that the Russkies were stupid enough to attempt to assassinate the President).

No, more likely the spy’s mission was pure espionage. The GRU was the intelligence organ specializing in stealing technology secrets—specifically those dealing with nuclear weapons and rocket systems—and Texas was home to a number of defense contractors. Barter’s boss, the special agent in charge of the office here, immediately assigned him to the case.

The only lead was a photograph of the purported spy, entering the country as a Polish businessman. All individuals coming in from Warsaw Pact countries were surreptitiously photographed at Customs at Idlewild airport. The image was crude but functional. It depicted a sullen man, blond and large, wearing a fedora not unlike Barter’s. The man was about forty years of age.

After viewing the picture of the Russian, however, the baggage handlers reported that they hadn’t noticed anyone resembling him.

Barter thanked them and stepped outside into the low November morning sun. Speaking to the cabbies was more productive. It took him only a half hour of canvassing to find the Prompt Ride taxi driver who recognized the man in the photo. He’d taken him to a boarding house off Mockingbird. The man remembered the number.

Barter climbed back into his red and white Ford Galaxie. He headed in the direction of the place and parked up the block. He approached cautiously but noted it was abandoned. Barter found a neighbor, a retiree, it seemed, who was washing his car. He showed his ID and asked about the house.

After the typical blink of surprise at the credentials, the man said, “Yessir, been closed up for months now. Bankruptcy. Foreclosed on. Damn banks. All respect.”

Barter stifled a frown of frustration, fists clenching and relaxing. “Well, I’m trying to find someone who might’ve been here several hours ago.” He displayed the picture.

“Yup. Saw him. Got outa a taxi cab. I was impressed. Them cost money. Taxis. Anyway, that fella picked up a car from the ga-rage and drove off.”

“Car?” Barter’s heart beat a little faster.

But the man had only heard the engine, not seen the make or model.

They walked to the small detached structure. Barter opened the unlocked door. The place was empty.

“Sorry I can’t be more help.”

Barter sniffed the air and bent down to examine the floor of the garage.

“You’ve been plenty helpful, sir.”

“So was I right? Bank robber? He looked plum like one.”

“You have a good day, sir.”

Mikhail Kaverin had checked into the Dallas Rose Motel, left his luggage and was enjoying piloting the Chevrolet Bel Air through the spacious streets of Dallas.

What a wonderful car this was!

A Bel Air! How Kaverin loved cars. He’d always wanted one, though in truth not a Russian make. For one thing, you waited forever and then you had to take whatever the government had on hand to sell you—for an exorbitant price (where was communism when you needed it?). And the best you could hope for was a temperamental, boxy AZLK or the slightly more stylish and popular GAZ Volga (whose manufacturer’s hopes for a handsome income stream by sales to the West never materialized—since the vehicles’ sole decoration was a big red Soviet star).

Guided by the map, and instructions from a helpful service station attendant, Kaverin found the Old East Dallas portion of town. The neighborhood was filled with private residences close together, many with front porches dotted with rockers and from whose roofs hung swings. He noted too inexpensive shops and a few small companies. He parked in front of the boardinghouse where Luis Suarez and Carlos Barquín would arrive tomorrow on their mission to track down and kill Comrade 35. It was a one-story, nondescript place, just a notch above shabby. He carefully studied doors and windows and sidewalks. And which neighbors seemed to be home now, during the day—potential witnesses.

He planned out the shootings. He would be waiting here in front of the house when they pulled up, with the trunk of the Bel Air open, pretending to be changing a tire. When they climbed out of their own car, he would shoot them and throw the bodies and their luggage in the trunk.

He drove slowly up and down the street, scanning, scanning. A spy’s primary weapon is the power of observation. His first handler at the GRU, a man who later became a nonperson under Stalin, had insisted that Kaverin and he take long walks through the streets of Moscow. After they returned to headquarters the mentor would interrogate the younger agent about what he’d noted. The initial trips yielded a half dozen vague observations. The later ones, hundreds of impressions, all rendered in acute detail.

Sergei had been pleased. Kaverin pictured the man’s unsmiling yet kind face and could almost feel the affectionate arm on his young shoulders. Then he tucked the hard thought away.

The peculiar circumstances of this assignment made Kaverin particularly cautious. He drove through the neighborhood again, looking for anyone who might be a threat. After fifteen minutes, he was satisfied he had a good sense of the place and of the risks he might face. He piloted the expansive Chevy out of this part of town and onto a main road. In ten minutes he pulled into the parking lot of a large grocery store. As he climbed out and walked toward the front door he thought: This place has the most ridiculous name I’ve ever heard of in a retail establishment.

The Russian spy was shopping in a Piggly Wiggly.

FBI Special Agent Anthony Barter sat in his Galaxie, which was parked in the far end of the lot, and watched the spy walk toward the store.

Picking up the spy’s trail had been less daunting than he’d expected. He’d deduced by smell and an examination of the significant oil slick on the garage’s floor that the spy was driving a car that leaked and burnt oil. So Barter had driven to the nearest gas station, a Conoco, and flashed a picture of the man. Sure enough, the attendant said that the man, who spoke English fine, but with an accent, had come in driving a bright turquoise Chevy Bel Air, bought a couple quarts of Pennzoil.

The Russian had also picked up a map of the area. He’d asked about the best way to get to Old East Dallas, then motored off in that direction in his oil-guzzler.

Barter had headed over to that neighborhood himself and cruised the streets until he found the Bel Air, which was paused at a stoplight. It was hard to tell for certain, but he believed the driver was the man in the surveillance photograph.

The FBI man almost smiled as he watched the spy stop in his tracks at the entrance of the grocery store—probably astonished by the multitude of plenty spreading out in the aisles. When he disappeared inside, Barter climbed out of his car and, hoping that the Russian would spend some time browsing the aisles, hurried to the Bel Air.

The vehicle was registered to a company in Plano, which Barter suspected would be phony. The Russian’s jacket and hat were sitting in the back seat. In the pocket of the sport coat he found a key to room 103 of the Dallas Rose Motel, on East Main Street in Grand Prairie, about ten miles away.

Barter returned quickly to his Galaxie and pulled out of the lot before the Russian left the store. He knew this was a gamble but he was worried about continuing to follow his subject. J. Edgar Hoover had required all the agents in the bureau to study communist spies. The message was that the GRU operatives were the best of the best. Barter was afraid he’d be spotted. So he left and drove to the parking lot of a gas station across the street from the Dallas Rose Motel.

He waited nervously. What if the spy had checked out of the motel, and simply forgotten to return the key? What if it wasn’t even his jacket? Had Barter lost his only lead?

If he ever needed a cigarette, it was now.

But he managed to refrain, nervously clenching and unclenching his sweaty hands.

Five minutes passed.

Ten.

Ah, thank you…

The brashly colored Bel Air rocked into the driveway and pulled up in front of room 103.

Barter’s car was parked facing away from the motel and he was hunkered down, observing through his rearview mirror.

The Russian climbed out, looked around suspiciously but not Barter’s way. He lifted a large grocery sack from the floor of the passenger seat. He disappeared through the door of his room.

Barter went to a pay phone and called his office. He asked a fellow agent about the company to which the Bel Air was registered. The man called back five minutes later. Yes, it was fake. Barter then ordered a surveillance team put together.

In twenty minutes, four FBI agents arrived, in two cars—personal ones, as Barter instructed. One vehicle pulled in front and one in the rear of the motel.

Whatever the Russian’s game might be, it was now doomed to failure.

Kaverin was truly enjoying his time in the motel, which was a word that he had never heard before. It was, charmingly, a hybrid of “motor” and “hotel.” How very clever.

While the décor was rough around the edges, the place was a million times better than the “posh” resorts on the Black Sea—those unbearably shabby shacks, featuring useless plumbing, stinking carpet, dirty sheets and the worst examples of cheap furniture Russian factories could disgorge.

Yet here? The linens were clean, the air fragrant, towels plentiful. The soap was even wrapped; it wasn’t decorated with body hairs from prior guests. No vermin prowled the floors.

And in the middle of the room was a television set! He flicked it on.

He opened his attaché case, removed the guns and cleaned them, eyes shifting from the screen to weapon and back.

A handsome newscaster was speaking into the camera.

She is indeed lovely, Kaverin reflected, noting a film clip of her waving to people outside the White House.

He put the weapons away and perused the menu card on the bedside table. He lifted the beige receiver of the phone, reflecting how curious it was to make a call—even one as innocuous as this—and not worry about being listened to.

He smiled as he tried to understand the cheerful but heavily accented voice of the woman who took his order. He chose a large T-bone steak, a “Texas-sized” baked potato and a double helping of green beans. To drink, a large glass of milk.

It was decadent, yes, but Mikhail Kaverin had learned that as a spy—in the field or even at home—you could never be sure if any given meal was your last.

At 6 a.m. Special Agent Anthony Barter pulled his Galaxie into the far end of the Dallas Rose’s parking lot.

More or less refreshed after three hours’ sleep, he climbed out of the car and walked casually toward the sedan containing the FBI surveillance team. Crouching, he asked the agent on the passenger side, “Anything?”

“Nup,” drawled the man. “Nobody came or went.”

“Any outside calls, in or out?”

That too was negative. Nor had the spy used the pay phone in the lobby. He hadn’t left his room since his return from Piggly Wiggly.

Barter found his hands making fists, then relaxing. He looked over at the Bel Air.

“What do we do, Tony?”

“We wait till he exits, then follow him to see who he’s rendezvousing with.”

Barter’s hope was that the spy was working with employees of LTO Inc. or one of the other big defense contractors here, whose engineers were designing sophisticated weaponry for the army and air force. He was hoping to bring down a whole cell of traitors spying for the Soviets.

He returned to his Galaxie, blinking as he noted a black sedan speed toward him and skid to a stop nearby. Barter was irritated; the Russian wouldn’t have a view of this spot from his window but the squealing stop might have put him on his guard.

The driver leapt out and sprinted through traffic.

“The hell’re you—?” Barter got no further than that. The young agent from his office was thrusting a telex into his hand.

Hell! He’s not a spy. He’s a killer!

And Barter suddenly understood why Kaverin had come to town—not to steal secrets, but to assist in an assassination attempt. It was too much of a coincidence that a trained GRU killer was here just prior to the President. True, the Soviets would never risk an international incident by being directly involved in an assassination. But one of their agents could easily have come here to protect someone else whose mission was to kill Kennedy, someone private, without a direct connection to Russia, most likely a U.S. citizen.

Oh, Jesus Christ…

He explained his thinking: “Kaverin’s here to back up an assassin. Maybe he’s providing guns or acting as a bodyguard for the trigger man, or helping him with escape routes. I don’t care if we break every bone in his body but we’re going to find out who he’s helping. Move now!

With guns drawn, the agents ran to the door of Kaverin’s room and kicked their way in.

Somehow, in his heart, Barter wasn’t very surprised to find that the room’s sole occupant was a bag of untouched groceries from Piggly Wiggly.

Nor was it any shock that the back window was unlocked.

Kaverin looked out the window of his room in the Skyline Motel, in north Dallas.

The parking lot and road were clear. The agents who’d been on his trail were, of course, still at the first motel he’d checked into, the Dallas Rose in Grand Prairie.

He’d become aware of a possible tail yesterday as he’d driven through the neighborhood of Old East Dallas, assessing risks, looking for anyone who might be unusually interested in him. He’d noted a Ford Galaxie—red body and white top. The car had been driving the opposite direction when he’d first seen it, but moments later it reappeared, following him.

Kaverin had left that area immediately and driven along commercial roads until he found the Piggly Wiggly and pulled in. The Galaxie followed. It too parked and the driver sat there alone, not smoking, not reading. All he was doing was ostentatiously not looking toward the Bel Air.

Clearly, this was suspicious: A man alone in a grocery store parking lot, who was not waiting for his wife?

He’d decided to find out the identity of his pursuer. So Kaverin left his jacket, containing the Dallas Rose room key, on the backseat and had gone into the grocery store and he’d slipped out the back, circling around to the parking lot. Yes, there was the man who’d been tailing him, wearing a suit—an official-looking one. He’d sidled up to the Bel Air and, looking around casually, too casually, eased the door open and went through the interior.

Kaverin himself had hurried to the man’s Ford Galaxie—and found the registration. Anthony Barter. He found nothing of the man’s affiliation but he’d hurried back to the Piggly Wiggly and used one of the store’s pay phones, which—unlike in Russia—actually worked. He had had to make only three calls—to the Dallas Police, to the Texas Rangers and to the FBI, asking for an Anthony Barter. The secretary at the last of the three had started to put him through to Special Agent Barter’s office. He’d hung up, bought a sack’s worth of random groceries and returned to his Bel Air.

The agent had left by then but when Kaverin had returned to the Dallas Rose he saw that, yes, the Galaxie was parked across the street. Kaverin had taken the groceries, gone inside, put on the TV and then quickly gathered his belongings and climbed out the back window. He’d made his way through a field to a bus stop and had ridden a mile then gotten off near a car dealership. He’d bought a four-year-old DeSoto Firedome coupe, huge and with impressive rear fins, with some of the thousand dollars Spesky had given him in Miami. He’d driven north until he found another motel, the Skyline. It was here that he’d spent the night, watching television, cleaning his weapons again and enjoying the sumptuous steak dinner.

Now, it was time to complete his mission. According to Rasnakov, Luis Suarez and Carlos Barquín would be arriving at the boardinghouse soon, to prepare for the killing of Comrade 35. Kaverin left the hotel and was at the boardinghouse in twenty minutes. He parked the DeSoto across the street, slipped the smaller of the guns—the Colt .22—into his waistband. He got out and opened the trunk, set the jack and tire iron on the grass beside the car and rested the spare tire against the bumper.

And he waited.

Fifteen minutes later a yellow Chrysler pulled slowly down the street, two men in the front seat. Men with mustaches and observant eyes.

Yes, they were his targets.

Kaverin’s hand eased into his jacket, gripped the handle of his pistol. It didn’t make much noise, just a pop, like a bigger gun with a silencer, but it was much more accurate.

He was breathing steadily, focusing on finding that unique place within you where you had to tuck your soul away when you took a human life. He murdered for his country, for the cause of what was just, for communism, for his own self-preservation. He was efficient at this dark task, even if he didn’t enjoy it.

He knew he was ready. And flicked the safety catch off the gun as he crouched down, watching the Chrysler in the reflection of his car’s chrome bumper.

It was then that a voice from behind startled Kaverin.

“Need some help there, sir?”

Still facing the Chrysler, he looked back to see a Dallas police officer standing on the sidewalk. Hands on his hips.

“I’m sorry?” the spy asked evenly.

“Have a flat? Need some help?”

“No, I’m doing fine, thank you, Officer.” Kaverin was speaking over his shoulder, with his back to the officer. His jacket was open and the pistol obvious.

“Don’t mind helping, really,” the man drawled.

Kaverin casually fixed buttons, but as he did he looked across the street and saw his two targets staring his way. Perhaps they thought the police and he were working together, looking for them. Or maybe the officer’s voice had simply caught their attention and they’d seen the pistol. In any event, the driver—it was Luis Suarez—aborted the parking maneuver, put the car in forward and eased into the street. He didn’t speed away—not just yet. But once the Chrysler turned the corner, Kaverin heard the big engine accelerate fast.

He turned back to the policeman and gave an appreciative smile. “I’ve gotten everything taken care of, Officer. Thank you, though.”

“Any time,” the man said and returned to his beat.

At around 8:30 a.m., Lee Harvey Oswald was being driven to work at the Texas Book Depository by a friend. He often did this, bummed rides. He didn’t have a license and, in fact, didn’t enjoy driving.

He had mixed feelings about his decision to spend the night at the Paines’ house in Irving. It was smart because it provided a good hiding place from those bastards who wanted to kill him. He’d looked forward to seeing Marina and their two daughters, one of whom was only a month old; they were staying permanently with the Paines. But that turned out to be a disappointment. He’d hoped to reconcile with Marina after a recent fight but it hadn’t happened. The bickering resumed, the night had turned to shit and he was upset.

“Whatcha got back there?” his friend asked as they nosed through morning traffic. He was nodding toward the long, paper-wrapped bundle in the backseat.

“Just some curtain rods.”

“Ah.”

Oswald continued to be cautious, shifting his gaze around the surrounding streets and sidewalks. Yes, some people seemed to be watching him, wary, suspicious, as if they knew exactly what he was going to do today. He reflected that he had told too many people about his contempt for Kennedy. And, hell, he’d just written an angry letter to the FBI, warning them to leave his family alone… That wasn’t too bright.

And curtain rods?

Jesus. No, it’s a 6.5-mm Carcano model 91/38 rifle. That’s what was wrapped up in the paper. How could anybody believe the bulky package was curtain rods? You need to think better. Be smarter.

And be cautious. He had a sense that his enemies were getting closer and closer.

He had the chance to make an indelible mark on history. He’d be famous forever. He had to make absolutely sure nothing would prevent that.

He looked around the streets of central Dallas, partially deserted now. There’d be crowds later, that was for sure, right there along Elm Street. Thousands of people. He knew this because the local newspaper had conveniently reported the exact route the President’s motorcade would take. The vehicles would come west on Main, then north briefly on Houston, then turn west again on Elm, passing right under the windows of the Texas Book Depository where he would be waiting in a sixth-floor window.

“You okay there, Lee?” his friend asked as he eased to a stop at a light.

“What’s that?”

“You didn’t hear me, I guess. I just asked if you’d be needing a ride back to the Paines’ tonight?”

Oswald didn’t answer for a minute. “No. I’ll probably just take the bus.”

“There. That’s a good place to shoot.” Luis Suarez said.

Carlos Barquín was examining the intersection where his partner was pointing—the sidewalk in front of the side door to the Texas Book Depository. “Looks like the only place to shoot. Good or bad, we don’t have any choice. Where else could we do it?” He seemed impatient.

Suarez nodded, though he didn’t much care for the man’s attitude. “Not very private, though.”

“Well, we don’t have the luxury of private. Not with a paranoid asshole like him.”

They had parked their Chrysler on North Record Street in downtown Dallas and were looking over the sidewalk in front of the Texas Book Depository. The morning was chill but they kept their jackets buttoned up because of the guns in their waistbands.

“I think it’ll work. All the buildings, they’ll cover the sounds of the shots.”

“Cover them?” Barquín asked.

“I mean the sounds’ll bounce around. Nobody will know where they came from.”

“Oh.”

“Nobody’ll know it was us. We’ll shoot him, drop the guns and walk back to the car. Walk slowly.” The pistols were wrapped in a special tape that didn’t hold fingerprints.

Barquín said defiantly, “I know what to do. I’ve done this before.”

Suarez didn’t say anything. He and Barquín shared both a certain ideology and a love of liquor. They’d even shared the same woman once or twice. He really didn’t like the man, however.

As they continued through the cool morning, Barquín asked, “That man, back there at the boarding house? In the suit, talking to the cop. He was police too, you think?”

“I don’t know.” Suarez had pondered who he’d been. He’d been armed and had been talking to that patrolman but it would have been odd for a cop to be there changing the tire of his own unmarked car—and an old DeSoto? No, the man was trouble but he couldn’t figure out how he fit into the picture.

They had some effects back at the boardinghouse, which they’d stashed there last week, but they’d have to abandon them now. Not that it mattered; they could pick up whatever they needed on the road as the Underground spirited them out of the country and back to Havana.

As they walked up Houston toward Elm, they passed a dim alley. A car was parked there, rear end facing them, the engine running and the trunk open. What was familiar about it?

“That car, haven’t we—?”

And Suarez realized it was the same DeSoto parked in front of the boardinghouse earlier when they’d seen that man changing the tire. The big, blond man. It was his car! Which meant—

He turned quickly, Barquín too. And both instinctively reached for their weapons, but the man was approaching fast from across Houston Street, already aiming his own gun at them.

The two Cubans froze.

Without a hesitation, without a blink, without breaking stride, the hulking blond man fired twice, hitting Barquín in the forehead.

Pop, pop.

He dropped to the ground like a discarded doll.

Suarez decided there was no choice. He continued to draw his gun, and hope he could get a round off in time.

The weapon wasn’t even out of his waistband when saw a tiny flash, then felt a tap between his eyes, a burning.

Which lasted less than a second.

Kaverin got the bodies into the trunk of the DeSoto quickly.

This was effortless. They were slight, weighing half what he did.

He fired up the DeSoto—he liked the Bel Air better—and pulled into Houston Street and then made his way out of downtown.

The search to find the men had been tense, though he’d known in general where they would be going—the most likely place to shoot down Comrade 35. Once there, central Dallas, he’d cruised the streets, looking for a yellow Chrysler. Finally he’d spotted it, near North Record Street. Suarez and Barquín were just getting out and walking south.

There were too many people to kill them there but Kaverin had noted the route they were taking and he’d pulled into an alley several blocks ahead of them. Once again he’d opened the trunk, then slipped into a doorway across Houston Street and waited. The men strode up the avenue and when their attention turned to the DeSoto he’d stepped across the street, drawing his gun.

Pop, pop…

Kaverin now drove out of the downtown area, parked and walked up the street to the Western Union office he’d located earlier.

There the spy spent some moments with a cipher pad writing a telegram reporting his success. He sent it to a safe house in Washington, D.C., where someone with the Russian consulate was waiting.

In fifteen minutes the response came back. It referred to shipments of wheat and truck allotments. But after deciphering:

Kaverin returned to the boardinghouse in the Old East Dallas part of town, opened the trunk of the DeSoto after making sure no one could see him—and no beat police officers were nearby—and emptied the pockets of the men he’d just shot. He found a fob containing the key to the front door of the boardinghouse and one to room number 2. He walked slowly up to the front door, checked to make sure he was alone, and then entered their room.

The men had not been inside that morning—after the scare with the police—but they had apparently stored some things there: several suitcases, containing clothes, money, ammunition, binoculars and Spanish to English dictionaries. He pulled out a penknife and began to look for secret compartments. He found none.

At about 12:45, he heard a commotion from the hallway, voices speaking urgently. He thought at first it might be the police, that he’d been tracked here, or that someone had seen an unidentified man entering the boarders’ room.

His hand on his pistol, he walked to the door, leaned close and listened.

“Did you hear? Did you hear?” a woman was calling, the words sliced by hysteria. “The President’s been shot! They think he’s dead!”

“No! Are you sure?” A man’s voice.

Someone began to sob.

Kaverin released his grip on the Colt, looked around the room and walked to the television set. He turned it on and sat in a creaking chair to wait for the device to warm up.

The time was 2 a.m., the day after the worst day of his life.

Special Agent Anthony Barter was trudging along the sidewalk to his apartment in Richmond, Texas. He’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours and he needed a little sleep—just a nap, really—and then a shower.

Then he’d return to the hunt for Lee Harvey Oswald’s assistant or savior or bodyguard or whatever he was: the Russian spy, Mikhail Kaverin.

The fallout was bad. Barter had kept his own superiors at the FBI and the Secret Service informed of every fact he’d learned about the spy from the moment he’d gotten the report from New York. But it was finger-pointing time now and Washington wanted to know exactly, minute by minute, what he knew and when he knew it and why he wasn’t more vocal about the threat to Kennedy.

“Because it wasn’t a threat at first,” he’d explained to the assistant director of the FBI in Washington. “We thought he was after classified weapons information. His behavior was suspicious but he didn’t seem dangerous.”

The assistant director had barked, “Well, the President of the United States is now suspiciously dead, Barter. I thought you were tailing him.”

Barter had sighed. “I was. He evaded me.”

He didn’t say “us.” Barter didn’t shift blame.

“Jesus Christ.” The man told him that J. Edgar Hoover personally would be calling him at some point tomorrow. And slammed the phone down. At least that’s what Barter imagined. He heard only a click, then static.

So this is what the demise of a career looks like, he thought. His heart clutched. Being a special agent was the only job that had ever appealed to him, the only job he’d ever wanted. His passion for the FBI went back to seeing newsreels about G-Men, to reading comic books about Elliot Ness, to watching movies like Gang Busters over and over again at Saturday afternoon matinees, while munching popcorn and sipping fizzy grape soda pop.

But his future wasn’t the first thing in his mind at the moment. All he cared about was finding Lee Harvey Oswald’s accomplice, finding Kaverin. For a moment he was flushed with anger and he hoped that, if he found the man, the Russian resisted arrest so Barter could put a bullet in his head. Even as he thought this, though, he knew it was an unreasonable, passionate reflex; the reality was that he would arrest the man, following procedure to a T and interrogate him firmly but respectfully.

The problem, of course, was finding him. Since he’d been Oswald’s protector, and the assassin was now in custody, Kaverin was probably long gone. Barter guessed he was probably on a steamer headed back to Russia. Still, Barter was doing everything possible to find the man. The instant he’d heard of the shooting, he had sent the Russian’s picture to every law enforcer in Texas and neighboring states and made sure the nearby airports and the train and bus stations were being watched. The automobile rental agencies too (ironically the Texas Book Depository was crowned with a huge Hertz billboard, touting Chevrolets). Roadblocks were set up, as well, and the docks along the Texas coastline were being searched by local police, FBI and the Coast Guard.

As every minute passed without word of a sighting, Barter grew more and more angry with himself. Oh, hell, if he’d only done more digging! Oswald had been under investigation by agents in his own office! The man had tried to defect to Russia, he was actively procommunist and had recently been in Mexico trying to get visas to Cuba and Russia. If that investigation had been better coordinated, Barter might have put the pieces together.

Now approaching his apartment, Anthony Barter paused, fished out his keys and stepped to his door, thinking: Okay, I’ll have one Lone Star beer. Yes, agents were not supposed to drink. But considering that tomorrow Mr. Hoover would tell him that he was soon to be an ex-agent, liquor was one vice that he wouldn’t have to worry about keeping secret any longer.

Barter walked inside, closed the door and locked it. He was reaching for the light switch when he heard, behind him, a floorboard creak. Special Agent Anthony William Barter’s shoulders slumped. He thought of his failure to the Bureau, to his country—and to his President. He was almost relieved when the Russian agent’s pistol muzzle touched the back of his head.

“How the hell did you find me?” Anthony Barter asked.

Mikhail Kaverin briefly studied the FBI agent, whose hands were shackled with his own cuffs. The Russian was impressed that the man seemed merely curious, not afraid. He returned to his task, which was using a penknife to slice open the lining of his attaché case.

Barter noted this surgery but seemed uninterested in it. His gaze was fixed ruthlessly on his visitor.

“How did I find you,” Kaverin mused, slicing away. He explained about observing the agent’s surveillance at the grocery store.

“You saw me?”

“Yes, yes, we’re trained to notice that. Aren’t you?”

“Not many people follow FBI agents. It’s usually the other way around.”

This made some sense.

He explained about his ruse at the Piggly Wiggly. The FBI man squinted his eyes shut in disgust. Then he sighed. “Okay, you didn’t kill me,” Barter said evenly. “So you’re going to kidnap me. Negotiate my life for safe passage out of the country.” He then said in a low, defiant voice, “But that isn’t going to work, my friend. We don’t negotiate with scum like you. Assassination’s the most cowardly act imaginable. You and your countrymen’re despicable and whatever you do to me, that won’t stop our entire law enforcement apparatus from finding you and making sure you’re arrested—and executed. And there’ll be sanctions against your country, you know. Military sanctions.” He shook his head in seeming disbelief. “Didn’t your superiors think through what would happen if the President was killed?”

Kaverin didn’t respond. He turned his attention to the agent. “We have not made introductions. I am Major Mikhail Kaverin of the Glavnoe Razvedyvatelnoe Upravlenie.”

“I know who you are.”

Kaverin wasn’t surprised. He said, “Well, Special Agent Barter, I have no intention of kidnapping you. Nor of killing you, for that matter. I found it necessary to come up behind you and relieve you of your weapon so that you would not act rashly—”

“Shooting an enemy of the country, a spy, is not acting rashly.”

Kaverin said. “No, but shooting an ally would be.”

“Ally?”

“Agent Barter, I am going to tell you some things you will undoubtedly find incredible—though they are true. Then, after we make some formal arrangements, I will give you your gun back and I will give you my gun and I will surrender to you. May I proceed?”

Warily Barter said, “Yes, all right.” His eyes shifted from the pistol to the documents extracted from the lid of the attaché case.

“Earlier this week I was called into the office of my superior at GRU headquarters. I was given an assignment: to protect an individual in the United States who would further the interests of the Soviet Union. A man we have code named Comrade Thirty-five.”

“Yeah, yeah, that son of a bitch, Lee Harvey Oswald.”

“No,” Kaverin said. “Comrade Thirty-five was our code name for John Fitzgerald Kennedy.”

“What?” Barter squinted at him.

“‘Thirty-five,’” Kaverin continued, “because he was the thirty-fifth President of the United States. ‘Comrade’ because he shared certain interests with our country.” The Russian pushed forward the documents he’d extracted from his case. “Can you read Russian?”

“No.”

“Then I will translate.”

“They’re fake.”

“No, they are quite real. And I will prove to you they’re real in a moment.” Kaverin looked down and scanned the documents. “‘To Comrade Major Mikhail Kaverin. Intelligence received from sources in Washington, D.C., has reported that in October of this year President John Fitzgerald Kennedy signed an executive order, initiating the reduction of American advisory and military forces in Vietnam.’”

“Vietnam?” Barter was frowning. “That’s that country near China, right? A French colony or something. Sure, we’ve sent some soldiers there. I read about that.”

Kaverin continued his reading. “‘Our sources have reported that Charles de Gaulle told President Kennedy that it would be very detrimental for the United States to become enmeshed in the politics of Southeast Asia. Kennedy went against the advice of his generals and established the goal to have all American troops out of Vietnam and neighboring countries by 1964. After the Americans are gone, the communist regimes in Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia will surge south through Malaysia and Singapore, establishing governments with true Marxist values throughout Southeast Asia. Our Premier and the Politburo will form an alliance with that bloc. Together we will stand firm against the wrong-minded Maoist cult in China.’

“‘If anything were to happen to Kennedy, our intelligence assessment is that his successor, Lyndon Johnson, will drastically increase the U.S. military presence in the region. This would be disastrous for the interests of the USSR.’”

He put down the documents, shook his head and sighed. “You see, Agent Barter, the mission of the agent who preceded me and of myself was to do whatever we could to uncover any threats to your President Kennedy and stop them. Our job was to protect him.” Barter snapped, “That’s bullshit! You knew about Oswald but you didn’t report it! If you’d really been concerned, you—”

“No!” Kaverin replied angrily. “We knew nothing of Oswald. That’s not why I was sent here. There was another threat to your President. Completely unrelated to the assassin. Do you know of Luis Suarez and Carlos Barquín?”

“Of course, we’ve been on the look-out for them for months. They’re Cuban Americans under orders from Fidel Castro to kill Kennedy because of the Bay of Pigs invasion. We haven’t been able to find their whereabouts.”

“I can produce them.”

“Where are they?”

“They’re in the trunk of my car.”

“Are you joking?”

“Not at all. That was my assignment. To find and eliminate them. We knew they were going to attempt to assassinate Kennedy, possibly on his visit here. When I shot them they were on Houston Street—at a place where your President’s motorcade would pass by. Undoubtedly they were looking for vantage points to shoot from. Both of them were armed.”

“Why didn’t you tell us that you had a lead to them?”

Kaverin scoffed. “What would you have done?”

“Arrested them, of course.”

“For what? Have they committed a crime?”

Barter fell silent.

“I thought not. You would have put them away for a few months for threatening the President or for having a weapon. Then they would have been released to try to assassinate him again. My solution was far more efficient and… far more permanent.” Kaverin grimaced. He said passionately, “No one was more shocked and upset than I to hear the terrible news today of your President’s fate.”

Kaverin fell silent, noting that Barter, who until now had been looking him straight in the eye, had grown evasive. The Russian said, in a whisper, “You knew about Oswald.”

No answer for a moment. Then: “I’m not at liberty to talk about investigations.”

Kaverin snapped, “You knew he was a threat and yet you were not watching him constantly?”

“We have… limited resources. We didn’t think he’d be a threat.”

Silence flowed between the men. Finally Kaverin asked softly, “Well, do you believe me, Special Agent Barter?”

After a moment the FBI man said, “Maybe I do. But you haven’t told me what you want out of all this.”

Kaverin gave a laugh. “It’s obvious, no? I want to defect. I have failed in my mission. If I return home I will become a nonperson. I will be killed and my name and all record of my existence expunged. It will be as if I never existed. I had hoped to marry, even at this age, to have a son. That is a possibility if I remain here.” He gave a faint smile. “Besides, I must tell you, Agent Barter. I’ve been in this country for only several days but I already find it rather appealing.”

“What’s in it for us?”

“I can give you a great deal of information. I have been a GRU officer for many years. And I can offer something more. Something to, as your card players here say, sweeten the pot.”

Barter said, “And what’s that?”

“What I can offer you, Agent Barter—excuse me, Special Agent Barter—is a real, living, breathing KGB agent.”

“KGB?”

“Indeed. You can arrest him and interrogate him. Or your CIA could run him as a double agent. You Americans love KGB spies, do you not? Why, your citizens know nothing of the GRU or the Stasi. But the KGB? Pick up a James Bond novel or go to the cinema. Wouldn’t it be a fine national security coup to land a fish like that?”

Kaverin put just the right tone into his voice to suggest that the arrest would be fine for Barter’s career personally too.

“Who is this man?”

“He is in Miami, operating undercover as the head of a transportation company. His real name is Nikolai Spesky. He purports to be a GRU agent, but in fact his employer is the KGB.”

“How d’you know that?”

“For one thing, because of your presence on my trail.”

“Me?”

Kaverin said, “I assume you learned of me through an anonymous tip, correct?”

“Yes, that’s right. Received by our New York office.”

“Perhaps through New York, but it originated from Comrade Spesky in Miami. He informed on me. You see, neither Customs officials or any airline in New York knew that my final destination was Dallas. Only Spesky did. I didn’t receive my ticket until I was in Florida. In fact, I wasn’t wholly surprised when you appeared; I was suspicious of Spesky from the beginning. That is one of the reasons I was looking for surveillance—and spotted you.”

“Why did you suspect him?”

“Top-brand vodka and paté and smoked oysters and bread with very little mold.”

Barter shook his head.

Kaverin continued, “Spesky told me his wife had sent him such gifts from Moscow. No GRU field agent’s wife would ever be able to afford such delicacies, only the wife of a KGB agent could.”

“But why would he betray you? Wouldn’t the KGB have the same interest you would—to keep the President alive so he’d withdraw the troops from Vietnam?”

Kaverin smiled again. “Logic would suggest that, yes. But in truth the essential interest of the KGB is in furthering the interest of the KGB. And that cause is advanced every time the GRU fails.”

“So your security agencies spy on each other, for no other purpose than sabotaging their rivals?” Barter muttered, his tone dark.

Kaverin fixed him with a piercing look. “Yes, shocking, isn’t it? Something that could never happen here. Fortunately you have Mr. J. Edgar Hoover to uphold the moral integrity of your organization. I know he would never illegally wiretap politicians or civil rights leaders or members of other governmental agencies.”

Anthony Barter offered his first smile of the evening. He said, “I can’t make any deals myself. You understand that?”

“Of course.”

“But I think you’re telling the truth. I’ll go to bat for you. You know what that means?”

Kaverin gave a broad frown. “Please. I am a fan of the New York Mets.”

Barter laughed. “The Mets? They had close to the worst season in major league history this year. Couldn’t you pick a better team?”

Kaverin waved his hand dismissively. “It was their second year as a team. Give them some time, Agent Barter. Give them time.”

The Russian then slid the photographs of the top-secret documents toward the agent, along with the keys to the DeSoto. He uncuffed the agent and, without a moment’s hesitation, handed over both of the pistols.

“I’m going to make some phone calls, Major Kaverin. I hope you won’t mind if I put the handcuffs on you.”

“No, I perfectly understand.”

He slipped them on, albeit with Kaverin’s hands in front of him, not behind his back. Before he reached for the phone, though, he asked, “Would you like to have a beer?”

“I would, yes. In Russia we have vodka but we don’t have beer. Not good beer.”

The agent rose and went to the refrigerator. He returned with two bottles of Lone Star, opened them and handed one to the spy.

Kaverin lifted his. “Za zdorovie! It means, ‘To our health.’”

They tapped bottles and both took long sips. Kaverin enjoyed the flavor very much, and the FBI agent regarded the bottle with pleasure. “I’m not supposed to be doing this, you know. Mr. Hoover doesn’t approve of drinking liquor.”

“No one will ever know, Special Agent Barter,” Kaverin told him. “I’m quite good at keeping secrets.”