The breezes blowing softly down from the Lenin Hills to the west carried a smell that for Chernko was as nostalgic as watching the shivering leaves of beech in the last golden light. It brought a sense of sadness, of time lost, never to be recovered, of long summer days when he and the other privileged nachalstvo—the “establishment”—enjoyed their cool dachas at Uspenskoye by the Moscow River. Yet as well as nostalgia for the past, the smell of autumn carried with it the feeling of hope-that the Americans would see all the signals; the idea of the volunteer force released by the Politburo and quickly picked up by the Western media; the presence of the Eastern Fleet in the China Sea; the maneuvers off Cam Rahn Bay. “Amphibious maneuvers,” the phrase that had been suggested by Colonel Marchenko, had precisely the right tone, telling the Americans that if the Soviet Union wanted to land on the Korean peninsula in force, it could.
Chernko’s aide returned with the list of agents. There were seventy-three who’d been cited for infractions, the most common being excessively high expense accounts.
“Back when the American President Carter proposed a tax on the two-martini lunch,” Chernko told the major, “it raised more hackles with our Washington head of station than with the capitalists on Wall Street.”
The major said he was surprised by the number of infractions.
“It’s the American air,” Chernko said, half-jokingly. “It encourages rebellion against rules.” The major gave a noncommittal nod. Sipping his tea, Chernko ignored the cases of inflated expense accounts and odd “unadvised” liaisons with street women. Finally he had ticked off fourteen names, eleven men, three women, who had been singled out for uprostit’ delo— “cutting comers”—a phrase that meant that in these cases the agent had, upon encountering unexpected difficulties, violated strict precautionary measures, a series of obsessionally followed multiple checks against entrapment or enemy surveillance.
“These are the ones,” Chernko said. “Arrange special meets,” he instructed the major. “No code transmits. No pouch. By hand. Vancouver the point of entry. Advisories to Toronto and New York.”
“Yes, sir. Special couriers?”
“No. We’ll use our two best Izvestia people to take the instructions. Journalistic cover.” Chernko thought for a minute, picking up another cube of sugar. “Travel pieces—’This Land Is Your Land — East To West.’ That sort of thing.” He saw the major didn’t get the play on words of the popular American folk tune. He toyed with the sugar cube as he looked down the list, tapping the yellow paper. “Vancouver is sister city to Odessa, isn’t it?”
The major was embarrassed — he didn’t know. “Ah — we have a consulate there.”
“Yes, it is,” said Chernko, answering his own question. “Odessa and Vancouver in the fall. A nice travel piece.”
CSIS, the Canadian Security Intelligence Service, had Montreal and Toronto pretty well bottled up, and the CIA, of course, had New York well covered. But Vancouver was known within the First Directorate as not only an easy entry point to the United States but also as one of the most beautiful cities in North America, which would make the journalist cover more convincing.
“How many agents will be going through?” asked the major. “I’ll start preparing the paperwork.”
Chernko drank his tea until the sugar cube crumbled under the pressure. “None,” he answered the major. “No, we don’t want to start putting in new people now, Major.” He gave an enigmatic smile. “It would upset the CIA!” He glanced up at the clock below the mounted emblem of the gold shield and sword. “I have to meet with the premier in half an hour. Two cars.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the major, picking up the phone to order the cars while deducing that if delivery of the Directorate’s message necessitated the Directorate using two of their top journalist agents in Izvestia and not even entrusting it to top secret code traffic between Moscow and the Soviet Embassy in Washington, then the message must be one of the most important Moscow center had sent in years.
It was.
As the Zil picked up speed across the square, the twin flashing red lights on either side of the Spassky Gate changed to green, the guards coming to attention and saluting. Chernko looked across at the major.
“Major, do you remember Rust?”
The major thought hard — was he one of the agents in place, a sleeper in America — or was it Canada?
“The German hooligan,” said Chernko. “He landed a plane in Red Square. Here!”
“Yes, of course.”
“About this time of morning,” added Chernko as the battered white Volga sedan they were riding in behind the decoy Zil limousine slowed before entering the Kremlin’s sulfur-colored inner sanctum. From here Chernko could see the red star high above the bell tower of Ivan the Great. Chernko allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. “Of course, that hooligan performed a great service to the revolution.”
The major, who prided himself on a photographic memory, was having a bad day. “How is that, Comrade Director?”
“He allowed Gorbachev to fire the minister of defense and his clique, all the old bednyagi—”farts”— in the party, the ones resistant to change.” Chernko saw that another Zil was entering the courtyard. It was Admiral Doldich. All stars and flags. A wonder there wasn’t a brass band.
“And,” Chernko continued, “the hooligan helped Comrade Gorbachev break down opposition to perestroika and opposition to detente with the United States. New openness. Gorbachev and Reagan. A breath of fresh air, you see. Just what we needed.”
The major was nodding; it had indeed been the schastlivoe vremya— “happy time”—for the KGB. “So that now,” Chernko said as the door opened, “we are ready.” He nodded to Doldich. “Morning, Admiral.”
“Comrade Director,” responded the admiral. The navy man would not have made a good agent, Chernko thought — his expectant look, his need for help, was written all over his face. As they walked to the premier’s office the admiral announced forlornly, “The fools have attacked an American frigate.”
“I know,” replied Chernko.” Satellite pictures show it is still burning. Is your fleet steaming south?”
The admiral looked up warily at Chernko. “Your agents can tell you an American frigate is afire, but they miss my whole fleet. How is that?”
Chernko started to smile but saw the admiral wasn’t in a joking mood. “Of course we did not miss it,” he explained. “But I mean have you reduced speed?”