Brook and Lopez sat down on a settee, and Levashev sank into the armchair facing it. He did not move with marked slowness, yet all his movements spoke of lassitude and indifference, as though he had gone through every possible motion innumerable times and no longer cared to improvise new ones.
“A drink?” he said. “Wine? Whisky? I believe there is even bourbon. That is what Americans prefer, I find.” His tone suggested that he, Levashev, found bourbon barbarous. Once a Russian always a Russian, Brook thought.
“Nothing, thanks.” Benny Lopez shook his head, too.
Levashev folded his thick fingers in his lap. “Well, then. What can I tell you gentlemen?”
“You must have been briefed, General,” Brook said. “We’re here to learn all we can about Aleksei Krylov.”
Levashev reached for a pipe with a curved stem. “Aleksei Vassilievich Krylov. I know him very well. The first time I saw him I knew that he would one day become an important man. Do you know why? Because he was never a very good socialist.”
“I don’t follow,” Brook said.
Levashev’s smile thinned. “In the Soviet Union these days, Mr. Brook, no good socialist succeeds. The only means of rising above the masses is by cultivating contempt for them — discreetly, of course. One never calls it that. Instead, you pretend that the benefits you are enjoying enable you to serve the dear Ivans and Mashas better. Since everyone in the — what you call the Establishment — is doing the same thing, no one contradicts you. Russia was really the wrong country for revolution. That is the tragedy of it.”
“I wish we had more time to discuss these things, General,” Brook said respectfully. “But time is of the essence. We have to get specific information about Krylov and take off.”
Levashev shrugged; the shrug said that Americans were a hurrisome people. “What shall I tell you? His background?”
“We know Krylov’s background. Up through the party ranks, special training in the Foreign Institute, the usual. His first foreign assignment was China, back in the Fifties. When your people were still welcome in China.”
“Interesting, that assignment of Krylov’s.” Levashev filled his pipe with slow fingers, applied a match, puffed and puffed; Brook thought he would never get it going. The Russian finally sat back. “We sent a number of advisers to China to help build their socialist state. Krylov went along to help organize the secret arm of their state security apparatus — it came under what was called internal security, but it was really their foreign intelligence network. They were naïve in those days. It took our Chinese comrades some time to realize that Krylov was there to gather information on their young security system for the central index in Moscow. I suspect they have never forgiven Krylov for it.”
“He had other assignments after China,” Brook prodded him.
“But before as well. That is most important. As a young man Aleksei Krylov served his apprenticeship — as an apparatchik — in various posts abroad. He was, in fact, a simple kidnapper and assassin. As time went on, he showed such talent as to rise rapidly in the KGB, where he is now a lieutenant colonel. Krylov has traveled a long and difficult road since the days when he was a mere professional murderer. He has developed proper contempt for the masses, almost bourgeois manners, perhaps too much of a taste for the luxurious trivia of the West. Of course, while serving abroad attached to embassies and legations in various spurious posts, he operated throughout as part of the Soviet intelligence apparat. I am sure you are familiar with the dangers of this sort of life to a Soviet agent. Krylov has done well, nevertheless. I suspect they have sent him to Tokyo as a reward. A breathing spell, you might say. For a year or two. That was a mistake, it now appears.”
“Yes,” Brook said. “You don’t have to be a capitalist in Tokyo to enjoy its fine line of vices.”
“That is why only the most trusted agents are sent to such posts. Even then they are watched; sometimes they are forbidden to leave the Embassy grounds. Krylov, however, has been very nearly above suspicion. There will be some red faces — and perhaps some rolling heads — if he should defect. He was given the best cover of all, that of cultural attaché. This permits him to mingle freely with the foreign community. In fact, he is encouraged to do so.”
Brook nodded impatiently. “We know all this, General. What we hoped to learn was the inside stuff about Krylov. His hobbies, likes, dislikes, weaknesses — things like that.”
Levashev stared at him. “I should say that most of Aleksei Vassilievich’s personal interests are of the capitalist, even the aristocratic, mold. He fancies himself a gourmet and a connoisseur of vintages. He likes to ride pour le sport, and in Denmark and England he even developed a fondness for yacht racing, the most capitalist pleasure of all. He has become reckless, I believe. Yes, a ripe plum for you.”
“Doesn’t this make him suspect in the eyes of his superiors?”
“Yes and no. He is clever and slippery and plausible. His explanation, when he attends certain garden parties and sporting events that are not on the official list, for example, is that he is carrying out the spirit of his orders, which are to mingle with the enemy in order to learn secrets. It is a fact, moreover, that he has produced invaluable intelligence for the KGB. In the Soviet Union nothing succeeds like success, as I believe you say here. So Krylov has managed to keep his position, with only an occasional reprimand for too much zeal. But you ask about his weakness. It is this fondness for luxuries.”
“That’s a Russian Communist speaking,” Brook said. “Forgive me, General, but in the United States the achievement of luxury is the common man’s dream.”
“And that is your weakness, too,” old Levashev retorted. “But let us not become embroiled in argument. Krylov has the requisite working-class background, or he would never have advanced so rapidly in the first place. Luxury is not natural to him, which is perhaps why he pursues it so fiercely. And why, because he must feel guilty about it, he is constantly parading his knowledge of ‘the finer things’ he pursues. Perhaps I am painting too crude a picture. While he exhibits many of the characteristics associated with your nouveaux riches, he is not at all obvious or stupid about it. I call it a weakness only because such things are self-deceptions. In the Soviet Union we have made an art of this, for all our practicality. It is this that, in my opinion, will result in the eventual collapse of the Marxist state.”
“Then you would recommend playing on Krylov’s love of Western luxury, General?”
“It is my recipe for traitors.” Levashev paused to relight his pipe. Brook and Lopez stared at him. Didn’t he realize that he had just damned himself as well? The men in the Kremlin were certainly not calling General Levashev a Hero of the Soviet Union. He was an astonishing old man. “How do you plan to bring Krylov over, Mr. Brook?”
“No plan yet, General. I’ll size up the situation when I get there. The main thing is how badly he wants to defect. We’ve received indications that he’s about ready. You know how delicate these things are.” Brook could not resist it.
“Oh, yes,” Levashev said; he sat blinking at them with his Stalin eyes. “I began that way myself. The idea begins as a little lesion, a sort of psychic tumor. It is at first frightening, but as it grows one becomes less afraid of it. It is the leaving of your own kind, your country — forgive me if I sound chauvinistic — that gnaws at a man. I would not be seated here today if the schemers in the Kremlin had not betrayed the socialist revolution.”