Aleksei’s pipe had gone out. Tapping it idly against one of the limousine’s jump seats, he followed the drift of cold ashes onto the rug. True, he thought, the Brodsky affair was no more than a blemish on his otherwise clean record. On the other hand, no one in intelligence could afford blemishes.
But Aleksei was a realist. He had mixed feelings about trying to get Dr. Kurt Brenner to defect. His plan, while a good one, had pitfalls. He thought of it as an intricate puzzle. So many pieces had to fall together in the right way for it to work.
Yet he had to admit that the average Soviet citizen with whom he had dealt over the years was no match for his interrogation skills.
Aleksei visualized a parade of faces: men, women, teenagers. One cowed subject after another. People who had grown used to his threats and the power of his office to make good on them.
But Dr. Kurt Brenner? A prominent American heart surgeon who was used to giving orders, not taking them? A man who had been raised in a decadent culture that nurtured independence?
Aleksei smiled. There was a challenge!
Chapter 33
“Zum Wohle aller!” For the good of all!” The Direktor of the Humboldt University Medical Clinic smiled at his honored guest, Dr. Kurt Brenner of New York City, United States of America.
Glasses were raised. Champagne was passed around as, one by one, the array of doctors rose to toast Brenner’s good health in German, Russian, Hungarian, Polish, Bulgarian, Romanian, and Czech.
Someone proposed a toast in honor of the ladies. Galya, seated unobtrusively near a desk in a corner of the spacious room, smiled shyly. Adrienne Brenner inclined her head in a silent “thank you.” Herr Direktor himself was toasted for having arranged such an excellent breakfast in the gaily-decorated clinic cafeteria.
Dr. Brenner did not imbibe.
Breakfast and toasting finished, the doctors began positioning their chairs in a loose semi-circle around Kurt Brenner.
Kiril, his chair arranged slightly behind Adrienne’s, whispered, “Now it begins. They are about to pick your husband’s brain about the latest techniques in cardiology and cardiac surgery. All through the meal and the toasts afterward, they have thought of nothing else. But first, they will waste time going through the required ritual of claiming that doctors in the People’s Democracies have the best of everything.”
“The best of our goods… sounds right up your alley,” Adrienne teased.
All except one doctor, Kiril thought. His mentor, Dr. Mikhail Yanin, wouldn’t dream of wasting valuable time extolling the Soviet Union’s inferior cardiac “achievements” when there was so much to learn from the eminent Dr. Brenner… and so little time in which to do it.
Dr. Yanin was on his feet. Kiril leaned forward as Yanin asked a highly technical question about artificial hearts—the agenda of the upcoming symposium in West Berlin sponsored by Medicine International.
Dr. Kurt Brenner spoke with eloquence for almost fifteen minutes.
The cardiologists from the People’s Democracies was a poor followup as they segued into their ritualistic bragging…
“The Soviet Union’s electronic monitoring system is a huge success!”
“A patient’s heartbeat speeds up. A second attack seems imminent but we are ready with a new drug.”
“A thousand-volt electrical charge to the chest was perfectly timed.”
“So our vascular stapling machine has made suturing obsolete.”
“It was a surgical breakthrough in congenital heart lesions.”
“Medical helicopters swiftly dispatched to remote areas.”
Kiril almost recoiled at this last outrageous claim. After his three years of forced internship in the remote areas beyond the Arctic Circle, even one medical rescue helicopter would have been a godsend.
A door behind Dr. Brenner opened and Aleksei Andreyev came in. Only two people noticed—Luka Rogov and Kiril Andreyev.
Rogov sat a little straighter in his chair.
Kiril’s hand automatically went to his chest—as if something was banging to get out.
The moment of truth! As soon as Dr. Brenner turns, Aleksei will see the likeness for the first time. Will he remember the so-called eye infection—my only excuse for wearing dark glasses?
Uneasiness turned to near panic as Kiril realized that, the breakfast event being so early, he had completely forgotten to apply the lemon juice!
Brenner’s back was to Aleksei as he finished responding to an ersatz claim by a cardiologist from Bulgaria. “Medicine is international,” he intoned. “Great contributions come from every corner of the globe. America has much to learn from your countries. It’s why I have always applauded medical exchanges”
“Colonel Andreyev!” cried the Direktor, spotting Aleksei. “We are pleased and honored that you could spare the time to join us.”
The semi-circle opened as doctors turned to look and reluctantly moved their chairs.
As Kurt Brenner turned to greet Aleksei Andreyev, he steeled himself for the shock of seeing him across the chasm of sixteen years. “Colonel Andreyev,” he said brightly, “Herr Doktor Direktor tells me it was your idea for this lovely breakfast and the opportunity to talk with colleagues from around the world.”
Aleksei’s voice stalled like the engine of a car left too long in the cold.
How is it possible?
After an awkward pause, his voice turned over. But even as he responded to the guest of honor, then to the director of the clinic, questions buzzed in his brain like annoying insects…
How could there be such an uncanny likeness to Kiril without my being aware of it? Why didn’t the Brenner file tip me off? What did I miss? Were there no file photographs?
He frowned, trying to remember, and then realized he had ordered a photograph from New York. Some bungler from the Soviet News Agency must have forgotten to wire it. He shook off his annoyance just as another door opened.
Chancellor Dmitri Malik entered the room and looked at Brenner with a benign smile.
Brenner paled.
The bastards have double-teamed me. Whatever game they’re playing, it looks like I’ll have the answers sooner than later.
Taking a conveniently empty seat next to Brenner, Malik said, “I understand you served in Germany during the Great Patriotic War.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Seventh Army. I was very low on the totem pole. A mere sergeant,” Brenner said with a self-deprecating smile.
How bored you sound, Dr. Brenner, Aleksei thought, pulling out his pipe. And Mrs. Brenner? Genuinely bored. Even if she has no interest in war stories, she should be very interested in this one.
“I’m curious,” Dr. Brenner,” Malik said. “Where were you when the war ended—and when?”
“Berlin, 1945.”
“I thought as much,” Malik responded, as if warmed by the pleasure of reminiscence. “Odd, the things one remembers and the things one forgets. For me, the battles are a complete blank. Yet I recall with fondness some of the weapons with which we won those battles.”
Aleksei got his pipe going and said cheerfully, “Come now, gentlemen, enough of this wartime reminiscing.”
The relief in Brenner’s eyes was so transparent Aleksei almost felt sorry for the poor bastard.
Do you believe, my big fish, that you have wriggled off the hook so easily?
“But I, too, spent time in Berlin after the hostilities, serving with Chancellor Malik years before our East German comrades implored him to accept the prestigious position he currently holds.”
The array of physicians, initially disinterested, were warming to the three-way conversation, intuitively sensing that there was more happening than met the eye.