“Yes.” Surikov wandered away, down the line of tombstones. The sky was more overcast now, and a few drops of rain fell, splattering the headstones and the damp leaves. A wind came up, and the rowan and birch trees swayed.
Hollis walked past Surikov, then stopped to look at the next tombstone. “Borodino, General.”
Surikov spoke. “Some kilometers north of Borodino was once located a Red Air Force ground school. Classroom instruction on American fighter tactics, capabilities, and weaponry.” Surikov paused for effect, then said, “The instructors were Americans.” He looked briefly at Hollis. “This is an incredible story, and you must listen closely.”
Hollis drew a long breath. The one prayer he’d allowed himself in church was that Surikov would confirm what he and Alevy had discussed. Hollis said abruptly, “That’s the half secret? I know all about that.”
Surikov turned his head toward Hollis. “What…?”
“You can’t get to London on that fare. I’m sorry.” Hollis walked away. He kept walking, like a man walking away from a bad deal or an unfaithful lover, hoping that the deal or the lover would get better in the next ten steps.
Surikov caught up with him. “You can’t… but how do you…?”
“I was out to Borodino. That’s why I’m being kicked out. I know there are Americans out there. I’m sorry. I thought you knew more—”
“I do!”
Hollis stopped and turned toward Surikov, who still held the carp in his hand. “What were you going to give me in London? What is the other half of the secret?”
Surikov licked his lips. “The school… you know they don’t train pilots there any longer…”
“Yes. I know they train KGB men to be Americans. How do you know that?”
“I… I supply the students. They’re not actually KGB. The KGB doesn’t trust its own recruiting methods. They get very odd personalities who want to be KGB, and they know that. They want honest Russian patriots. Men who had volunteered to be Air Force pilots. Men, I suppose, who would have something in common with their American instructors.”
Hollis nodded. “Like when it was a training school for pilots.”
“That’s my understanding. From what I’ve heard, when it was a Red Air Force training school, our pilots seemed more interested in asking the Americans about America than in learning their fighter tactics. The political commissar was very angry and worried about this situation and reported several pilots to the KGB. It was then that the KGB had their brilliant idea. They eventually took over the school. There was no formal announcement to the American prisoners, but gradually the nature of the school changed from fighter tactics to what it is now. A spy school. This is what I heard.”
“And how are you involved with this school now, General?”
“I’m not directly involved, but Air Force Personnel has to handle the paperwork on the candidates for this school, since they are all members of the Red Air Force. So I—” Surikov stopped. “There’s more. Much more. Is it worth it to you, Colonel, to get me out of here?”
“Perhaps. But you know, General, we don’t need any more information on this school. We know where it is, and we have enough information already to precipitate an international crisis.” He looked at Surikov. “You know what I need.”
Surikov didn’t reply.
“The names,” Hollis said. “The names of Soviet agents already in America. I assume you have some sort of list, or you wouldn’t still be trying to make a deal. The names. That is your ticket west, General.”
“But… if I got that for you… how do I know you wouldn’t abandon me and my granddaughter? I have nothing to offer for my passage if I gave you the list of names here.”
“You simply must trust me.”
“I can’t.”
“You must. Listen to me, General. You are, as we say in English, a babe in the woods. You understand? Once you took that first step you were as good as dead. And so is Natasha. I could expose you here, or shoot you in London. I can also give you back your life. I could be lying, but you don’t know if I am or not. You simply have no choice but to do what I say, to understand that the game is being played on my terms now.”
General Surikov’s body seemed to sag. Beneath the erect military man was a tired old grandfather trying to do one last thing right and cursing himself for it. Surikov said, “We don’t understand faith and trust here. We’re not taught those things as children. Here we trust no one but family. We have faith in nothing.”
Hollis said, “Do you understand that if you gave me that list, and I let something happen to you, I could not live with myself? Do you understand that concept? Conscience. Did you listen to the priest, or was your mind somewhere else?”
“I heard him,” Surikov snapped. “It’s all new to me. Less than two years. Do you expect me to become a saint in two years? Do you think I believe you are a saint because you go to church and use saintly words?”
Hollis smiled. “I’m no saint, my friend.” Hollis didn’t think the words trest, vera, and sovest—“trust,” “faith,” and “conscience”—were particularly saintly words, but he supposed if one rarely heard them, they could be jarring or moving or both.
“I need time to think this over. I’ll meet your replacement next Sunday—”
“No. There is nothing to think about. It would be best if you made your decision now and gave me your word on it. Then I will give you my word, and I will see to it that you get out of here. I’ll meet you in the West if you wish.”
General Surikov seemed to rediscover his backbone and stood straight. “All right. You’re a lot more ruthless than I thought, Colonel. But perhaps you do have a conscience. Here is what you’re getting: a microfilm of the personnel records of every man who’s gone to the American Citizenship School — that’s what the KGB calls it. On the microfilm you will find photographs of the men, their Russian names, their fingerprints, places of birth, birthdays, blood types, identifying scars, dental records, and so forth. A complete personnel file. You will not find their new American names or addresses, and I cannot even tell you how many of them actually made it to America. Only the KGB has that information. So your people over there — the FBI — will have to do a great deal of work. That’s all I can give you.”
Hollis nodded. It was a start. “How many?”
“A little over three thousand.”
“Three thousand…? All on microfilm?”
“Yes. These men, incidentally, are all officially dead. Killed in training accidents. The Red Air Force gave them military funerals. Closed coffins. We buried a lot of sand. We also paid out a lot of death benefits. The KGB finds it convenient to use our logistics, our money, our pilot candidates, and the cover of military deaths for so large an operation.”
Hollis nodded to himself. Three thousand military training deaths in the States would cause something of a national scandal. Here, not even one such death ever made the newspapers. The three thousand families of the supposed deceaseds only knew of their own loss. Amazing, Hollis thought. Only a totalitarian society could mount an operation such as that. The world’s largest Trojan horse, the biggest fifth column in history, or whatever Washington would call it. Hollis asked, “Where is the microfilm?”
“I’ll tell you where you can find it when I get to London. That was the deal. Half now, half in London.”
“I told you, I already have the first half. You’ll give me the microfilm now.”
“Why now?”
“Because you may be arrested anytime between now and the time we try to get you out of here. Because I want it now. That’s why.”