“Yes, sir”
“What are your orders” The young man was embarrassed. “Ah … we were sent to … I I “Never mind” Baranov said, smiling warmly this time to put the man at ease. “I will speak with your captain. We’ll get this straightened out in no time at all” Baranov turned and walked up to the house. He could feel the young lieutenant’s eyes on his back, and it irked him. But his control was marvelous, as it had always been. He was met in the main stairhall by Sergei Sergeevich Nemchin, one of his bodyguards. “Where is he”
“In your study, Comrade Chairman” Nemchin said. “I didn’t know what to do with the stupid bastard”
“What’s his name”
“Rybalkin. Nikolai Petrovich. He’s a captain with the Moscow District Militia”
“Here to arrest me”
“Yes, sir” Nemchin said with a laugh, but he seemed just a little nervous about it. “Stay here, Sergei Sergeevich, I’ll handle the captain” Nemchin nodded. His jacket was off, and a big sweat stain had darkened his shirt beneath his shoulder holster. “Stay here”
Baranov repeated, and he went back to his study, hesitated for just a moment at the door, and then went in. Militia Captain Rybalkin was a moderately built man with thick black hair, which was combed straight back, and a broad honest face. Baranov thought the name might be familiar; perhaps his father or an uncle worked in Directorate One headquarters out on the circumferential highway. “Good evening, Captain”
Baranov said. Rybalkin had been standing at the window looking outside.
He nodded grimly. “Comrade Valentin Illen Baranov, I have come to place you under arrest and return you immediately to Moscow for prosecution” “I see” Baranov said. “On what charges”
“Treason. I I Baranov’s breath caught in his throat. “I am under orders from Special Moscow District Prosecutor Kuryanov. Sir, I wish no trouble from you or your men”
“Nor shall you have any, Comrade Captain, if indeed you are who you claim to be, and you do have the orders and proper authority” Rybalkin pulled out his Militia identification and held it up for Baranov to see.
Then he handed over a sheaf of papers which was the Bill of Arrest.
Baranov took it to his desk, where he put on his glasses and quickly read through the legal document that named him and Arkady Kurshin as co-conspirators in three indictments: adventurism, engaging in acts contrary to Soviet law, and engaging in activities likely to bring harm to the Soviet Union. It was Gorbachev, of course. But he had had no direct hand in this. He had simply pointed a special prosecutor in the right direction and allowed his much-vaunted “rights of Soviet law” to go into action. Baranov looked up. The Militia captain was watching him closely. “Call Sergei in here, would you please, Captain” Rybalkin’s eyes narrowed and he stiffened, his hand going instinctively to the gun at his side.
“I promised you no trouble, Captain, and I meant it. But if I am to leave with you, I will have to instruct my people what to do here”
“Very well” Rybawin said. “We will also require Comrade Kurshin to accompany us back to Moscow”
“That, I’m afraid, will be impossible. Major Kurshin is dead”
“Who killed him”
“The Americans, I think”
“Where is his body”
“That I couldn’t say, Captain. But it is not here” Again Rybalkin hesitated. It was clear that he understood something was not quite right here, and that he was probably in some sort of danger. But his orders were official. They were his protection. He turned and had started to open the door into the corridor when Baranov withdrew his pistol from his pocket, switched the safety off, cocked the hammer, and fired two shots. The first bullet smashed into Rybalkin’s left lung a couple of inches from his spine, and the second entered his head just below his left ear, slamming him against the door, where his legs collapsed and he fell dead. The door was shoved open seconds later by a white-faced Nemchin, his pistol in hand. “It was a mistake, Sergei Sergeevich” Baranov said. “He hadn’t come here to arrest me at all. I think he was here to assassinate me”
Nemchin’s eyes went from Rybalkin’s body to the gun in Baranov’s hand.
“Yes, Sir” he said. “He probably works for the Americans. His lieutenant is out in the car. Kill him” Nemchin hesitated for only an instant, but then turned on his heel and raced down the corridor.
Baranov could hear his steps in the stairhall and the front door being flung open. He folded the Bill of Arrest and put it in his pocket as he came around the’desk. It would turn out, he supposed, that these two had been gunned down by McGarvey. Unfortunate.
Nemchin was back moments later. Baranov met him out in the corridor.
“The car is gone”
“He must have heard the shots. Call Dmitri at the gate. Have him stop the car” Nemchin grabbed the walkie-talkie from the hall table and keyed it. “Dmitri, are you there”
“Is that you, Sergei”
“Yes. That Mercedes that came up a few minutes ago is on its way back down. Stop it”
“We can’t. We just let him through” Nemchin turned to Baranov who had heard the exchange. “Shall we go after him”
Baranov thought about it for just a moment, then shook his head. “No, we’ll attend to it later”
“But, Comrade “
“Later” Baranov snapped, and Nemchin blanched.
It was a few minutes after 11:00 PM. The weekend was winding down and traffic in West Berlin was almost frantic in its intensity. It seemed as if the city was trying to have fun at a breakneck speed, Perhaps because so many Berliners thought there might not be a tomorrow.
McGarvey sat in the backseat of a cab waiting to cross the frontier.
There were two cars ahead of them. He had picked UP the same Fiat with the East German license tags from the Operations hangar at Templehof. No one had been around this time to greet him, or to ask him any questions, and the airbase gate guard had simply waved him through.
He had driven directly up to the British Sector of the city where he had left the car and his Kurshin identification in a car park on Kant Strasse a couple of blocks west of the main post office and tourist information center. Then he had walked down to the bright lights of the Ku’damm where he had caught a cab. Baranov would know that he was coming tonight. And the man would know that he would be using the Kurshin ID.
It made him sick to think how long this had gone on. All this time Baranov had been at least one step ahead of him because of the penetration agent in Washington. Christ, it was galling. Sitting in the cab, watching the lights of the crossing and the East German border guards doing their jobs, McGarvey tried not to think in any great detail about Lorraine Abbott. Baranov had taken her for bait. As extra insurance to make sure McGarvey would show up. He didn’t think Baranov would have harmed her. Not yet. The man would wait until later. In a way she was going to be the spoils for the victor; if Baranov won, she would be destroyed. McGarvey had to wonder: if he killed Baranov, would Lorraine have any better chance for survival? Border restrictions between the east and west sectors of the city were almost nonexistent, though identification papers were still being demanded and closely scrutinized. When it was finally their turn, McGarvey wound down his window and handed out his Gutherie passport. The border guard looked up sharply from the passport photograph to McGarvey’s face bathed in the harsh violet glow of the big lights. “Do you have another form of identification? Something else with your photograph on it”