Jack Ryan 5 - The Cardinal of the Kremlin (22 page)

“We begin again. The woman you meet on the train—who is she?”

“I do not know her name. She is over thirty, but young for her age. Fair hair, slim and pretty. She is always dressed well, like a foreigner, but she is not a foreigner.”

“Dressed like a foreigner—how?”

“Her coat is usually Western. You can tell from the cut and the cloth. She is pretty, as I have said, and she—”

“Go on,” the interrogator said.

“The signal is that I put my hand on her rump. She likes it, I think. Often she presses back against my hand.”

The interrogator hadn't heard that detail before, but he immediately deemed it the truth. Details like that one were never made up, and it fitted the profile. The female contact was an adventuress. She was not a true professional, not if she reacted like that. And that probably—almost certainly— made her a Russian.

“How many times have you met her like this?”

“Only five. Never the same day of the week, and not on a regular schedule, but always on the second car of the same train.”

“And the man you pass it to?”

“I never see his face, not all of it, I mean. He is always standing with his hand on the bar, and he moves his face to keep his arm between it and me. I have seen some of it, but not all. He is foreign, I think, but I don't know what nationality.”

“Five times, and you have never seen his face!” the voice boomed, and a fist slammed down on the table. “Do you take me for a fool!”

The courier cringed, then spoke rapidly. “He wears glasses; they are Western, I am sure of it. He usually wears a hat. Also, he has a paper folded, Izvestia, always Izvestia. Between that and his arm, you cannot see more than a quarter of his face. His go-ahead signal is to turn the paper slightly, as though to follow a story, then he turns away to shield his face.”

“How is the pass made, again!”

“As the train stops, he comes forward, as though to get ready to leave at the next station. I have the thing in my hand, and he takes it from behind as I start to leave.”

“So, you know her face, but she does not know yours. He knows your face, but you do not know his . . .” The same method that this one uses to make his pickup. That's a nice piece of fieldcraft, but why do they use the same technique twice on the same line? The KGB used this one too, of course, but it was harder than other methods, doubly so on the Metro's crowded, frantic rush-hour schedule. He was beginning to think that the most common means of transferring information, the dead-drop, wasn't part of this line. That, too, was very curious. There should have been at least one dead-drop, else the KGB could roll up the line—maybe . . .

They were already trying to identify the source of the leak, of course, but they had to be careful. There was always the possibility that the spy was himself (or herself?) a security officer. That was, indeed, the ideal post for an intelligence agent, since with the job came access to everything, plus foreknowledge of any counterintelligence operations under way. It had happened before—the investigation of a leak had itself alerted the spy, a fact not discovered until some years after the investigation had been terminated. The other really odd thing was that the one photographic frame they had was not of a real diagram, but rather of a hand-drawn one . . .

Handwriting—was that the reason that there were no dead-drops? The spy could be identified that way, couldn't he? What a foolish way to—

But there was nothing foolish here, was there? No, and there wasn't anything accidental either. If the techniques on this line were odd, they were also professional. There was another level to this, something that the interrogator didn't have yet.

“I think that tomorrow, you and I will ride the Metro.”

Colonel Filitov woke up without a pounding in his head, which was pleasure enough. His “normal” morning routine was not terribly different from the other sort, but without the pain and the trip to the baths. He checked the diary tucked away in the desk drawer after he dressed, hoping that he'd be able to destroy it, as per his usual procedure. He already had a new blank diary that he'd begin with when this one was destroyed. There had been hints of a new development on the laser business the previous day, plus a paper on missile systems that he'd be seeing the following week.

On entering the car, he settled back, more alert than usual, and looked out the window during the drive into work. There were a number of trucks on the street, early as it was, and one of them blocked his view of a certain piece of curb. That was his “data-lost” signal. He was slightly annoyed that he couldn't see where it was, but his reports were rarely lost, and it didn't trouble him greatly. The “transfer successful” signal was in a different place, and was always easy to see. Colonel Filitov settled back in his seat, gazing out the window as he approached the spot . . . there. His head turned to track on the spot, looking for the mark . . . but it wasn't there. Odd. Had the other marker been set? He'd have to check that on the trip home tonight. In his years of work for CIA, several of his reports had been lost one way or another, and the danger signal hadn't been set, nor had he gotten the telephone call asking for Sergey that would tell him to leave his apartment at once. So there was probably no danger. Just an annoying inconvenience. Well. The Colonel relaxed and contemplated his day at the Ministry.

This time the Metro was fully manned. Fully a hundred Second Directorate men were in this one district, most dressed like ordinary Moscovites, some like workmen. These latter were operating the “black” phone lines installed along with electrical service panels throughout the system. The interrogator and his prisoner were riding trains back and forth on the “purple” and “green” lines, looking for a well-dressed woman in a Western coat. Millions of people traveled the Metro every day, but the counterintelligence officers were confident. They had time working for them, and their profile of the target—an adventuress. She was probably not disciplined enough to separate her daily routine from her covert activities. Such things had happened before. As a matter of faith—shared with their counterparts throughout the world— the security officers held that people who spied on their homeland were defective in some fundamental way. For all their cunning, such traitors would sooner or later connive at their own destruction.

And they were right, at least in this case. Svetlana came onto the station platform holding a bundle wrapped in brown paper. The courier recognized her hair first of all. The style was ordinary, but there was something about the way she held her head, something intangible that made him point, only to have his hand yanked down. She turned and the KGB Colonel got a look at her face. The interrogator saw that she was relaxed, more so than the other commuters who displayed the grim apathy of the Moscovite. His first impression was of someone who enjoyed life. That would change.

He spoke into a small radio, and when the woman got on the next train, she had company. The “Two” man who got on with her had a radio earpiece, almost like a hearing aid. Behind them at the station, the men working the phone circuit alerted agents at every station on the line. When she got off, a full shadow team was ready. They followed her up the long escalator onto the street. Already a car was here, and more officers began the surveillance routine. At least two men always had visual contact with the subject, and the close-in duty rotated rapidly among the group as more and more men joined in the chase. They followed her all the way to the GOSPLAN Building on Marksa Prospekt, opposite the Hotel Moscow. She never knew that she was being followed, and never even attempted to look for evidence of it. Within half an hour, twenty photographs were developed and were shown to the prisoner, who identified her positively.

The procedure after that was more cautious. A building guard gave her name to a KGB officer who admonished him not to discuss the inquiry with anyone. With her name, a full identity was established by lunchtime, and the interrogator, who was now running all aspects of the case, was appalled to learn that Svetlana Vaneyeva was the child of a senior Central Committee member. That would be a complication. Quickly, the Colonel assembled another collection of photographs and reexamined his prisoner, but yet again he selected the right woman from a collection of six. The family member of a Central Committee man was not someone to—but they had identification, and they had a major case. Vatutin went to confer with the head of his directorate.

What happened next was tricky. Though deemed all-powerful by the West, the KGB has always been subservient to the Party apparatus; even the KGB needed permission to trifle with a family member of so powerful an official. The head of the Second Directorate went upstairs to the KGB Chairman. He returned thirty minutes later.

“You may pick her up.”

“The Secretary of the Central Committee—”

“Has not been informed,” the General said.

“But—”

“Here are your orders.” Vatutin took the handwritten sheet, personally signed by the Chairman.

“Comrade Vaneyeva?”

She looked up to see a man in civilian clothes—GOSPLAN was a civilian agency, of course—who stared at her oddly. “Can I help you?”

“I am Captain Klementi Vladimirovich Vatutin of the
Moscow
Militia. I would like you to come with me.” The interrogator watched closely for a reaction, but got nothing.

“Whatever for?” she asked.

“It is possible that you can help us in the identification of someone. I cannot elaborate further here,” the man said apologetically.

“Will it take long?”

“Probably a few hours. We can have someone drive you home afterward.”

“Very well. I have nothing critical on my desk at the moment.” She rose without another word. Her look at Vatutin betrayed a certain sense of superiority. The Moscow Militia was not an organization that was lavished with respect by local citizens, and the mere rank of captain for a man of his age told her much of his career. Within a minute she had her coat on and the bundle under her arm, and they headed out of the building. At least the Captain was kulturny, she saw, holding the door open for her. Svetlana assumed from this that Captain Vatutin knew who she was—more precisely, who her father was.

A car was waiting and drove off at once. She was surprised at the route, but it wasn't until they drove past
Khokhlovskaya Square
that she was sure.

“We're not going to the Ministry of Justice?” she asked.

“No, we're going to Lefortovo,” Vatutin replied offhandedly.

“But—”

“I didn't want to alarm you in the office, you see. I am actually Colonel Vatutin of the Second Chief Directorate.” There was a reaction to that, but Vaneyeva recovered her composure in an instant.

“And what is it that I am to help you with, then?”

She was good, Vatutin saw. This one would be a challenge.

The Colonel was loyal to the Party, but not necessarily to its officials. He was a man who hated corruption almost as much as treason. “A small matter—you'll doubtless be home for dinner.”

“My daughter—”

“One of my people will pick her up. If things run a little late, your father will not be upset to see her, will he?”

She actually smiled at that. “No, Father loves to spoil her.”

“It probably won't take that long anyway,” Vatutin said, looking out the window. The car pulled through the gates into the prison. He helped her out of the car, and a sergeant held the door open for both of them. Give them hope, then take it away. He took her gently by the arm. “My office is this way. You travel to the West often, I understand.”

“It is part of my work.” She was on guard now, but no more than anyone would be here.

“Yes, I know. Your desk deals with textiles.” Vatutin opened his door and waved her in.

“That's her!” a voice called. Svetlana Vaneyeva stopped dead, as though frozen in time. Vatutin took her arm again and directed her to a chair.

“Please sit down.”

“What is this!” she said, finally in alarm.

“This man here was caught carrying copies of secret State documents. He has told us that you gave them to him,” Vatutin said as he sat behind his desk.

Vaneyeva turned and stared at the courier. “I have never seen that face in my life! Never!”

“Yes,” Vatutin said dryly. “I know that.”

“What—” She searched for words. “But this makes no sense.”

“You've been very well trained. Our friend here says that his signal to pass on the information is that he runs his hand across your rump.”

She turned to face her accuser. “Govnoed! This thing said that! This”—she sputtered for another moment—“worthless person. Rubbish!”

“So you deny the charge?” Vatutin inquired. Breaking this one would really be a pleasure.

“Of course! I am a loyal Soviet citizen. I am a Party member. My father—”

“Yes, I know about your father.”

“He will hear of this, Colonel Vatutin, and if you threaten me—”

“We do not threaten you, Comrade Vaneyeva, we ask for information. Why were you on the Metro yesterday? I know that you have your own car.”

“I often ride the Metro. It is simpler than driving, and I had to make a stop.” She picked her package up off the floor. “Here. I dropped off the coat for cleaning. It is inconvenient to park the car, go in, and then drive on. So I took the underground. Same thing today, when I picked it up. You can check at the cleaners.”

“And you did not pass this to our friend here?” Vatutin held up the film cassette.

“I don't even know what that is.”

“Of course.” Colonel Vatutin shook his head. “Well, there we are.” He pressed a button on his intercom set. The office's side door opened a moment later. Three people came in. Vatutin waved to Svetlana. “Prepare her.”

Her reaction was not so much panic as disbelief. Svetlana Vaneyeva tried to bolt from the chair, but a pair of men grabbed her by the shoulders and held her in place. The third rolled up the sleeve on her dress and stuck a needle in her arm before she had the presence of mind to shout. “You can't,” she said, “you can't . . .”

Vatutin sighed. “Ah, but we can. How long?”