Torpedo!

CHAPTER 13

Stefan Lubutkin entered Igor Shevenko’s office in response to the buzzer Shevenko had pushed, his gold Cross pen and a notebook in his hands.

“Yes, Comrade Director?”

“Is that report from Department V on the plans to disrupt the British Railway System still in the office?”

“No, sir, after you initialed it two weeks ago I sent it to Files.” He looked pointedly at his wrist watch. “It’s almost five, sir. The Files people shut up shop at four-thirty each day. We can’t get a file until after five and with only one person on duty in Files after five that will take some time.” He looked again at his watch.

“You have a date this evening?” Shevenko asked.

“Yes, sir,” Lubutkin said.

“You must be a regular dog with the girls,” Shevenko said, grinning. Lubutkin blushed. “Don’t bother with the files, call Simonov and tell him I want to see him at once. One of these days we’ll go to lunch with your girl friend, agreed? I’d like to meet her.”

“As you wish, Comrade Director. I’ll make the call at once and thank you for being understanding.” He went into his office and Shevenko heard him talking on the telephone. Lubutkin stuck his head around the corner of the door.

“He will be here in five minutes, sir. I’ll go now, and thank you again.”

Anton Simonov walked into Shevenko’s office and extended his hand. Shevenko shook hands with him and pulled the other man close to him.

“Go back to your office,” he whispered. “Bring one of your sweepers back with you.” Simonov nodded and left. He returned with a stolid man who carried a box in his hand. He nodded his head to Shevenko and put the box on Shevenko’s desk and opened it. He took an electronics device out of the box and hung it around his neck and began to sweep the office for electronic bugs. When he had finished he stood in front of Shevenko’s desk and packed his box.

“One tape cassette hooked up to your telephone, Comrade. The cassette is in the next office. Nothing else.”

“I know about that one,” Shevenko said. “I ordered it installed. Thank you.” The man left and Shevenko opened the front of a dummy set of filing drawers, revealing a small General Electric refrigerator. He took two glasses and a bottle of American vodka from the refrigerator and poured two drinks.

“How does it go since the reorganization of the department?” Shevenko asked. Simonov lifted the small glass of vodka in salute.

“Good and not so good. Mostly good,” Simonov answered. “Some of the holdovers from Department Thirteen, the Wet Squad people, are bored. Planning sabotage of the London subway system is not as exciting as assassinations, in their minds. Some of the people who worked on the desecration of synagogues in West Germany, that was at least ten years ago, still think that is what we should be doing today. But on the whole, things go well. And with you?”

“Like you, good and bad,” Shevenko said.

“There must be some bad or you wouldn’t have asked for a sweeper after your aide had left for the day.”

“I have been told a reason to suspect him,” Shevenko said slowly.

“Can I help?” Simonov asked.

Shevenko poured another drink and looked at the man sitting in front of his desk. He and Anton Simonov had been schoolmates when they were children and later in the Academy. Shevenko had joined the KGB several years before Simonov had been recruited and had risen within the ranks rapidly. When the Kremlin leaders decided in the mid-Sixties to eliminate the dreaded Department Thirteen because of unwanted publicity, Shevenko had prevailed upon the Politburo to shift the emphasis of the department from assassination to the planning of sabotage of military and civilian installations in the West. He also suggested that Department Thirteen be renamed Department Five and that it assume a very low profile. When those suggestions were given formal approval Shevenko had raised Anton Simonov from an administrative job in Department Thirteen to be chief of the new Department Five.

“Yes, you can help,” Shevenko said. “I want a twenty-four hour surveillance put on my aide, Stefan Lubutkin. The same surveillance put on Admiral Zurahv, if you still have agents in your department who can do this without detection and who are trustworthy.”

“No problem,” Simonov said. He tossed off his vodka, inhaling sharply, savoring the bite of the liquor against the back of his throat. He grinned. “I had decided today to come to you tomorrow about Lubutkin.”

“Why?” Shevenko said.

“First of all, he’s a homosexual. You knew that, didn’t you?”

“I had heard that only recently. That’s why I called you. Is it common knowledge?”

“I don’t think so,” Simonov said.

“But you knew,” Shevenko said softly. Simonov raised his hands and waved them.

“Don’t misunderstand me, old friend. I was asked to do surveillance on a certain person to discover if he had normal sexual desires. I carried out the surveillance, it is still going on, and we found that this certain person does not have normal sexual desires. He prefers young men. He prefers your Stefan Lubutkin.” He smiled and when he spoke his voice was very soft. “The certain person is, as you probably suspect, Admiral Zurahv.”

“Why didn’t you come to me when you got this request?”

Simonov shrugged his shoulders. “Comrade, the request came from very high up, too high for me to take that chance. But I did intend to ask to see you tomorrow, to warn you about Lubutkin.” He sat back in his chair. “I do not concern myself with internal politics, as you know, but I have heard that you and the Admiral are not the best of friends.”

“One could say that,” Shevenko said. Simonov smiled faintly.

“To put it simply, Comrade Director, the Admiral is a bungholer. I looked up the proper word today, after I had decided I must come and talk to you. The Admiral is a pederast.”

“And Lubutkin?” Shevenko said.

“He has the hole the Admiral bungs,” Simonov said.

“You have proof of that?”

“Not the sort of proof one would need to go before a Board of Inquiry. But I have lots of circumstantial evidence. Pictures of the two of them meeting clandestinely. Lubutkin getting into the Admiral’s car. Lubutkin and the Admiral getting out of the car at the Admiral’s apartment and going inside. Lubutkin coming out alone hours later. Lubutkin going home to be consoled by his roommate.”

“I thought he lived alone,” Shevenko said.

“The housing records show he lives alone but he shares his apartment. He has two rooms and a private bath and a kitchen, with another pervert, an artist who has been in trouble before for making anti-Soviet statements. We have had microphones and a camera hidden in that apartment for two weeks. The evidence is quite interesting, if you have a strong stomach.”

“Explain,” Shevenko said.

“When Lubutkin comes home from the Admiral’s apartment his roommate bathes him and applies some sort of salve to his asshole. The Admiral must be hung like a mule. Then your boy bungholes his roommate. Two days ago the roommate begged Lubutkin to bring his friend to their apartment for a threesome. If that were to happen…” Simonov left the sentence hanging.

“If that were to happen the Admiral would be commanding a shovel in Siberia,” Shevenko said. “But it won’t. He’s too old a fox to go outside his own run.” He looked at Simonov and reached for the bottle of vodka.

“You wouldn’t care to tell me who ordered you to begin this surveillance of the Admiral?”

“I couldn’t do that, now could I, old friend?” Simonov reached for the small glass of vodka and held it in his hand. Shevenko noticed that Simonov’s hand did not tremble.

“Let me make a guess, then,” Shevenko said. “Would the person who asked you to do this be older than most, one who spits a lot?”

Simonov sipped at the vodka. “In school, when we were in school,” he said, “when the teacher wanted an answer and no one knew you would always guess and you were almost always right. You have not changed.”

“Thank you,” Shevenko said. He smiled. “You can supply me with photos, duplicates of your tapes?”

“Of course,” Simonov said. “I will deliver them myself, tomorrow. We use the new camera, the one that prints the date and the time of day in one corner of the negative. How about an early lunch in that place we used to meet when you were planning the change in my department? Eleven-thirty?”

“Fine,” Shevenko said. “I depend on old friends like you. I wish I had more of them. As my mother used to say, go with God.”

“My mother always said that, too,” Simonov said with a grin.

Isser Bernstein rocked back in his desk chair and let his eyes move from Moise Shamanski to Naomi to Lev Tolar, the top naval expert in the Mossad. Tolar, a short, squat man with a heavy beard, sat erect in his chair, holding a sheaf of papers in his hands. Bernstein turned to Naomi.

“What’s the latest on the attacks by the Chinese along the Soviet border?”

Naomi looked at the notebook she held in her lap. “Our last information is timed at zero five thirty this morning, from the Moscow source. The Soviets are moving four divisions to the Chinese border. Two divisions are being pulled out of Poland, two out of East Germany. It’s an airlift operation. Aviation units are also being deployed from western Russia to the border.”

“Hm,” Bernstein said. “Pretty big diversion of force, isn’t it? Do the attacks along the border warrant that sort of diversion?”

“Our military people don’t think the attacks are that serious,” Naomi said. “They agree that one, perhaps two divisions would be sufficient at this time. With the caveat that if the Soviets really believe that the Chinese are going to do more than they have in the past then four divisions plus aviation units would be reasonable.”

Bernstein turned to Lev Tolar.

“What’s your thinking on this order from Moscow to put all their submarines on a war alert status?”

Tolar shrugged his shoulders “I wonder about the way the message was sent. It was sent in an old code, one that everyone can read. It’s as if the Soviets wanted the Americans and everyone else to know what they are doing, and that isn’t like them at all. If they meant serious business I think they would have used one of their top secret codes.

“Putting their submarines on war alert doesn’t necessarily mean they will go to sea. Our reports show that their submarines are taking aboard stores and some torpedoes to fill out their racks. The order was issued yesterday morning but the crews of the submarines stopped work at fifteen thirty hours, the usual quitting time and crew members off duty were seen going ashore, going into town.”

“What reaction do you pick up from Washington to that order?” Bernstein asked.

“The Americans have changed deployment of their attack submarines, sending two attack submarines to cover each Soviet missile submarine that is loose in the Atlantic or Pacific. But that’s normal also, it’s happened a number of times before when the Soviets would issue a general alert.

“There aren’t very many Soviet missile submarines in the Atlantic or the Pacific,” Tolar continued. “The Soviets have had quite a bit of matériel difficulty lately and their Navy seems, at times, to be on the edge of almost mutiny because of extended sea duty and very little time in port. So they’ve started leaving a lot of their ships in port, surface and submarine ships, to give the crews more leave time.” He looked up from his notes.

“The Soviet admirals have had a policy of ten to fourteen days leave for their sailors every three years. It is a stupid policy and they’ve begun to realize that.”

“Those Soviet submarines in port, they have to run a gauntlet of underwater listening devices and mine fields to get out to the Atlantic from the Kola Peninsula and to the Pacific from the Sea of Okhotsk, don’t they?” Naomi asked.

“Yes,” Tolar said. “That is, the Americans will know the minute any Soviet submarine tries to get out into the Atlantic. The net east of the Sea of Okhotsk is not as tight, the area is more open than the route from the major missile submarine base on the Kola Peninsula so a few might get out into the Pacific.”

“Once they start to move out to sea the underwater listening devices pick them up and then the mines get them, is that the way it works?” Bernstein asked.

“That’s the principle,” Tolar said.

“I’d like your opinions of what would happen if the major powers lose their heads and begin a nuclear war. Lev, you first.”

“Both sides lose,” Tolar said. “Neither can neutralize the other’s counterstrike capability. Both lose.”

“Where does that put Israel?” Bernstein said. “Where would we be in relation to the Arab World?”

“At war,” Moise Shemanski said glumly. “At war with an enemy that outnumbers us twenty or more to one. Without any doubt, most of the Third World nations would come in on the side of the Arabs.”

“Japan?” Bernstein said softly.

“They’d wait, with China, until the Third World nations had mopped us up and then China would move in and dominate what was left of the world. Japan would be China’s ally, without doubt.” Naomi and Tolar nodded their heads in agreement.

“My assessment is that the Soviets will do nothing for a while,” Bernstein said. “They have too much on their plate at the moment, no matter what their hardliners say.

“They’ve got this new trouble on the border with China. Their satellite states in Eastern Europe are uneasy; the invasion of Czechoslovakia is only a year old, Poland has been restless since they returned Gomulka to power back in Fifty-eight. The grain crop this year is below expectation. There are meat shortages in the countryside. They have a lot on their plate.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk.

“But that notwithstanding, we have to assume that the Soviets might move to retaliate against the American destruction of their submarine. Their missile submarines may not be as bottled up as the Americans think they are. When the Egyptians mined the desert approaches in the 1947 war how did we break through the mine fields? We sacrificed the lead tanks to the mines and went through the mine fields along the path of the sacrificed tanks.” He looked at Lev Tolar. “Couldn’t the Soviets do the same thing, run one small submarine out through the mine fields and then follow the cleared path with the rest of the missile submarines?”

“It’s not quite like a desert mine field,” Tolar answered. “The mines the Americans use are not mines in the true sense of the word. They are modified torpedoes that lie on the bottom, inert. They have to be activated by a sonar signal and after that is done when a ship passes over them they rise from the bottom and go to full speed and chase down the ship, using a sonar device in the nose of the torpedo that homes on the noise of the ship’s propellers.

“That leaves a gap in the mine field, yes. But an American submarine lying well clear of the mine field can energize all the other passive torpedoes with sonar signals and set them free of the bottom to sink any other ships that go through the mine field.”

“Interesting,” Bernstein said. “Do the Soviets know of this?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Tolar said. “It is a very deep secret. We found out about it when they began to modify their older torpedoes to turn them into passive mines.”

Bernstein massaged his small gray goatee with the fingers of his right hand. “It might be a good idea to let the Soviets know about this,” he mused. “It might be something that would give them cause to be very cautious.” He looked at his people, his face grim.

“Our best national interest is quite clear. It is to prevent a nuclear war between the two superpowers. I must think about it some more but I think the Soviets should know about the torpedo mines.”

“If you decide to tell them, how will you do it?” Naomi asked.

“Shevenko,” Bernstein said.

“He can’t be trusted,” Shemanski growled.

“True,” Bernstein said. He smiled faintly. “None of us can be trusted by someone from another nation, not if we think first of our own nation. But in all the years I have known Igor Shevenko I have never known him not to pay back a favor or a debt. If he has this information it will give him another lever to use in his disagreements with the Soviet admirals and their hardliner backers in the Politburo.” He rose from his chair.

“Thank you,” he said. “We all have work to do.”

The weather in Moscow had turned unseasonably warm and a soft, misting rain was falling, blurring the sharp icy edges of the snow piled along the sides of the sidewalks. Igor Shevenko left his office and walked the two blocks between his office and the Kremlin with long, firm strides, breathing in the warm, moist air with relish. At the Kremlin he turned north and slowed his pace, heading for a worker’s cafeteria near Sverdlov Square. He pushed through the door of the cafeteria and his nostrils were assaulted by the heavy, warm smells of rain-soggy clothes and the odors of cooking. He shouldered his way through the early lunch crowd and found a table back in a corner of the room. Anton Simonov entered the cafeteria a few moments later and stood looking around the room. He saw Shevenko and joined him.

“A good change,” Shevenko said as Simonov sat down. “A little warm rain is better than a lot of wet snow.” He looked up at the waiter who was standing near the table.

“Cabbage soup, a cold pork sandwich, and beer.” The waiter looked at Simonov, who nodded and said he would have the same.

“This break in the weather probably means we will be freezing our asses off this time next week,” Simonov said. “I like to see winter stay winter until it is over and done with. I don’t like these little periods of warm weather.”

“Did you like it in Egypt when you were there?” Shevenko grinned at the other man. He broke a piece of bread into chunks and began to chew one of the pieces.

“No. Too damned hot there. Day and night no relief from that damned muggy heat. And filth? Cairo has to be the world’s dirtiest city.” He pulled his chair into position as the waiter put two bowls of steaming cabbage soup on the table.

“Anything happen last night, after we talked?” Shevenko asked.

“The usual thing,” Simonov said. He blew on a spoonful of soup and tested the temperature with his tongue before putting it into his mouth. “Your boy, excuse me, your aide was picked up in an alley near your office by his friend in his official car. We have pictures of that. We have pictures of the two of them getting out of the car in front of the friend’s apartment. The friend must like your aide, he patted him on his ass on the way to the apartment door.

“Your aide came out of the apartment at one this morning and the friend’s car took him home. The film taken at his apartment shows the same routine.” He bent his head to his soup bowl and spooned up the savory liquid. He finished the soup and shoved the bowl away as the waiter put two plates, each with a thick sandwich of coarse bread and cold pork, on the table with two steins of beer.

Simonov grimaced, his open lips showing a tooth capped in stainless steel. “It’s a damned disgusting business, you know that? Your aide gets buggered and then he comes home and buggers his roommate.”

“Did you get pictures last night?”

“Oh, sure. We took over the apartment next door to your aide’s apartment. The pictures are in my briefcase.” He raised the case from the floor and put it back down. “Also cassettes, copies of the cassettes we made over the past three weeks in your aide’s apartment. Turns your stomach to listen to them.”

“The friend’s driver,” Shevenko said.

“We own him,” Simonov said. “He’s a sailor. Charged once with sodomy. The man he drives for got him off. I think the whole Navy is homosexual.”

Shevenko grinned. “You know what Winston Churchill said when he was in charge of the English Navy? He said the quote unquote glorious days of wooden ships and iron men were really days of beatings and buggery. How do you own the driver?”

“You start following one lead and you uncover six others,” Simonov said. “You know how it is. The driver has a little friend, a little fop who writes about the ballet for magazines. We took pictures of the two of them and then leaned on the driver. He will co-operate. His boss lets your aide play with him in the back of the car. The driver knows what goes on. If necessary he’ll testify to save his own skin.” He looked at Shevenko as he washed down a mouthful of the coarse bread and pork with a swallow of beer.

“It’s a damned dangerous situation, my old friend. With a snake in your grass such as you have you’d better be damned careful where you step.” He raised his hand and the waiter brought two more steins of beer and took away the empty plates.

“If I may suggest it, old friend, let me eliminate your aide and his roommate. With apartments as scarce as they are, two animals like that don’t deserve to have their own quarters. With a bath and a kitchen.”

“When do you have to show your evidence to the man who asked you to do the surveillance?” Shevenko said.

“No fixed time,” Simonov said. “Listen to me, Igor. Let me take care of this snake in your office. I’ll arrange it so you will be in the clear, depend on me for that. You don’t have to say who your aide’s friend is. You can simply say that you suspected your aide and that his death came before you could bring charges against him. With both of them eliminated part of your problem goes away. With what I have got, while it’s only circumstantial, the driver and the death of your aide makes what I do have damned heavy circumstantial evidence. Enough for the man who wanted the surveillance done to use his weight. And he is one who knows how to do that.”

“How would you do it?” Shevenko asked.

“A simple wet job. I’ve got people in my department who have made a career out of that sort of thing. It would appear to be a lovers’ quarrel between two homosexuals. Not uncommon, not even for Moscow.”

“Weapons?” Shevenko asked.

“Probably kitchen knives. A dual stabbing. We’d wait until after your aide had buggered his friend. The medical examiner could be coached to examine the artist’s bunghole for semen. Simple.”

Shevenko pushed back his chair and looked at the bill the waiter had laid on the table. He put some money on top of the bill and took the briefcase Simonov handed to him. He stood up.

“Tonight,” he said.

“Agreed,” Simonov said. “But we may have to wait a day, wait until your aide does his job on his little friend so the medical examiner will be able to find the evidence.”

“I’ll owe you for this,” Shevenko said as the two men walked toward the door of the cafeteria. “I always pay my debts, Anton.”

“There will be no debt,” Simonov said firmly. “I can never repay you what I owe you. For many things. Not the least of which is my wife’s peace of mind. Her mother is safe and happy in Israel, thanks to you. She and my wife pray for you each night. Think no more about it. Think about finding someone to be your aide.”

“I have someone in mind,” Shevenko said as the two men walked slowly along the sidewalk. The misting rain had stopped and a cool wind was blowing. “It will freeze by tomorrow,” Shevenko said.

“Who do you have in mind?” Simonov said. “I have a good man in my department who might be the man for you.”

“Sophia Blovin,” Shevenko said.

“Sophia?” Simonov grinned. “A man would be a fool not to bring that one along, to raise her up. And to lay her down!” He banged on Shevenko’s shoulder with a heavy fist and laughed.

“You never change, old friend! You know what we used to say in the Academy, about the girls? We used to say that if you made it the first time with a girl then you could be certain that Igor had been there ahead of you!”

Shevenko shook his head, smiling. “Those were good days. Tonight, if you can.”

“Leave it to me,” Simonov said.