The Run Around

Chapter Two

General Valery Kalenin was a small, saturnine man whose life had been devoted to Soviet intelligence. He had controlled it through two major leadership upheavals in the Politburo, which now regarded him with the respect of people well aware — because he’d made sure they were aware — that he had embarrassing files upon all of them, like America’s Edgar Hoover had retained unchallenged his control of the FBI with his tittle-tale dossiers upon US Congressmen and presidents. Kalenin had been a young and never-suspected overseas agent in Washington during the last year of Hoover’s reign and had been unimpressed by the ability of the country’s counter-intelligence service. He’d applauded the advantage of incriminating information, though, and followed Hoover’s example when he had gained the ultimate promotion to Dzerzhinsky Square. Although he had taken the precaution Kalenin was unsure if he would ever use it as a defence, because he found the idea of blackmail distasteful, like he found assassination distasteful. The defection was a good enough excuse to abandon the idea but Kalenin, a forever cautious man, thought there might also be a good and protective reason to let it run.

Although the question had been put more to Berenkov than to the head of the assassination division, it was Lvov who responded. ‘A great deal of planning and effort has gone into the operation,’ he said, an ambitious man defending something personally his.

‘To how much did Novikov have access?’ demanded Kalenin.

‘Certainly sufficient to know that an assassination was being planned,’ said Berenkov. In contrast to Kalenin, the head of the First Chief Directorate was a bulge-stomached, florid-faced man.

‘But little more than that,’ argued Lvov, who was aware of the importance the Kremlin attached to the assassination and even more aware of the benefit of being recognized its creator.

‘We’ve traced three cables Novikov enciphered,’ said Berenkov. ‘One specifically talked of the value to be gained from a political killing.’

‘There was no identification of the target,’ insisted Lvov.

‘There is in the Politburo Minute,’ said Berenkov. ‘And Novikov was security-cleared for Politburo traffic.’

Kalenin, who was conscious of the differing attitudes between the two men confronting him, said: ‘Is there any proof of Novikov having seen the Politburo document?’

Berenkov shook his head, almost angrily. ‘Security in the Kremlin is a joke,’ he said. ‘There is no system, like we have here, of signature acknowledgement of handling. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. The only way we’ll ever know is to go ahead and find they’re waiting for us. And then it will be too late.’

‘You think we should abort then?’ demanded Kalenin. There was no other officer in the KGB whom Kalenin respected more than Alexei Berenkov. Like Kalenin, Berenkov had been a brilliant overseas operative — controlling five European cells under his cover as a London wine merchant — and endured English imprisonment until an exchange had been arranged, back to Moscow, where he had proven himself to be an even more brilliant headquarters official and planner.

‘I know how important the mission is regarded,’ said Berenkov. ‘I know, too, how much organization and time has gone into setting it up. But I think the risk of it being compromised outweighs every consideration.’

Lvov, who had anticipated Berenkov’s caution, said: ‘Vladimir Novikov was not the man who handled the identifying Politburo communication …’ He paused, offering a sheet of paper across the table to the KGB chairman. ‘This is an affidavit from a man named Nikolai Perebillo,’ Lvov resumed, triumphantly. ‘He controls the entire cipher section, with absolute clearance. And he attests that only he transmitted Politburo communications naming the target.’

Kalenin looked enquiringly at Berenkov.

Unimpressed, the huge man said: ‘Does it also attest that he’s positive that Novikov, alerted from messages to which he’d already had access, didn’t use his matching clearance to go through Politburo files to get more information?’

‘He could have been shot for that!’ tried Lvov.

‘He was a traitor, leaking information to the British!’ Berenkov came back. ‘He already risked being shot. And would have been, if he hadn’t realized how close the investigation was!’

‘I still consider it unthinkable that he would have tried such a thing,’ said Lvov. He was a small, narrow-faced man.

‘It’s what I would have done if I’d been about to defect and wanted to impress the people to whom I was going,’ admitted Berenkov.

‘So it comes back to being a gamble,’ said Kalenin.

‘Isn’t it a governing principle in intelligence that gambles should be reduced to a minimum?’ reminded Berenkov.

‘Doesn’t that depend on the stakes?’ said Lvov, balancing question for question.

‘And they’re high,’ agreed Kalenin.

‘They would be higher if it ended in a disaster we didn’t intend,’ warned Berenkov.

‘How long would it take to prepare for another opportunity?’ Kalenin asked the head of the assassination department.

‘There’s no way of knowing when another such public opportunity will arise,’ pointed out Lvov. ‘Months, certainly. And there would be no guarantee that the woman would be involved again, if we aborted this time. Without her — or someone like her — it would be impossible.’

‘They’re ready?’

‘Both of them,’ assured Lvov. ‘He’s an outstanding operative.’

Kalenin shook his head at Berenkov and said: ‘I don’t see we have any real alternative.’

‘There is,’ disputed Berenkov, stubbornly. ‘The very real alternative is to cancel and wait for another occasion, irrespective of how long it takes or how difficult it might be to manipulate.’

‘It’s not a choice I think I have,’ said Kalenin.

‘I don’t believe Novikov saw any more than the three messages we’ve positively traced to him,’ said Lvov, recognizing the argument was tilting in his favour. ‘And by themselves they’re meaningless: no one would be able to make any sense from them.’

‘I know of some who might,’ said Berenkov, whose British capture had been supervised by Charlie Muffin.

‘We go,’ decided Kalenin. ‘I acknowledge the dangers and I don’t like them and I’d personally enjoy interrogating the runaway bastard in Lubyanka until he screamed for the mercy I wouldn’t give him, to learn exactly how much he’s taken with him. But I think on this occasion we’ve got to take the gamble.’

Lvov allowed himself a smile of victory in the direction of Berenkov, who remained expressionless. Berenkov said: ‘Let’s hope, then, that it’s a gamble that pays off.’

The instruction centre for KGB assassins is known as Balashikha. It is located fifteen miles east of Moscow’s peripheral motorway, just off Gofkovskoye Shosse, and it was here in his isolated but luxury dacha that the waiting Vasili Nikolaevich Zenin received the telephone call from the head of the department, within minutes of Lvov leaving the meeting in Dzerzhinsky Square.

‘Approval has been given,’ announced Lvov.

‘When do I start?’

‘At once.’

Five thousand miles away, in the Libyan capital of Tripoli, Sulafeh Nabulsi left the headquarters offices of the Palestinian Liberation Organization precisely at noon, which she did every day and headed directly towards the port area, which she also did every day, her regulated actions governed by an obedience to orders found only in absolute fanatics. At the post office close to the corner of Revolution Avenue she made her daily check at the poste restante counter, feeling a jump of excitement when the letter for which she had been waiting so anxiously for so long was handed to her. It was postmarked London and consisted only of three lines, on paper headed with the name and address of a genuine English mail order company. The catalogue about which she had enquired was being despatched immediately, it promised. Sulafeh smiled, feeling her excitement grow. She’d known and lived among soldiers all her life but had never encountered anyone like this, someone trained so specifically to kill. What did an assassin look like? she wondered.

‘Names!’ demanded Harkness.

‘The Red Parrot, the Spinning Wheel and the Eat Hearty,’ said Charlie, uncomfortably. He was taking a chance, hoping they’d support the lie even though he ate at all three quite a lot and they knew him.

‘Why don’t they print their names on their receipts!’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Charlie. ‘That’s what they gave me when I asked for a copy.’

‘You know what I think these expenses are?’

‘What?’

‘Fraud. Criminal fraud.’

‘I genuinely spent the money,’ insisted Charlie. He supposed he should have guessed that Harkness wouldn’t let the matter drop, despite the Director lifting his suspension. Vindictive bugger. What would Harkness do when the bank manager’s letter arrived?

‘You think you’ve got away with it again, don’t you?’

‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘You understand it well enough,’ insisted the Deputy Director. ‘You haven’t got away with anything: you’ve been assigned because the Director thinks you have some special ability for a case like this. Which I, incidentally, do not. But I am going to continue the enquiry into these expenses.’

‘But while I’m on assignment I will be able to draw money, won’t I?’

Harkness’s face flared, in his anger. He said: ‘I want every penny properly accounted for, with receipts and bills that are verifiable.’

‘I always try,’ said Charlie. He’d have to warn the restaurants that the sneaky little sod was likely to come sniffing around.