The Falstaff Enigma (2 page)

It was approaching six o'clock in the evening and Austin knew that he and his partner of three years now had the information necessary to produce a comprehensive report on the "Grapevine" within two weeks. The videotape machines, one for each of them, had been humming all day. They were not the small VHS or Beta units bought by private consumers but were large reel-to-reel units used by the most sophisticated television stations – and the most sophisticated intelligence gatherers.

Austin estimated the value of the electronic equipment in their office alone a
t about a hundred thousand dollars. How many times had he seen the news reports and read the articles attacking the antiquity of government electronics systems? Indeed he knew that these reports, while exaggerated, weren't too far from reality. But that was the real government and was totally alien to the world in which Austin and Welch lived. The DIA that Austin knew – and that knowledge was very limited – seemed to have money to burn, and the bureaucracy was no more than that he had known on Wall Street. But the computers, videotapes, encoders/decoders and other gadgets Austin had at his fingertips put to shame anything he had ever seen on Wall Street.

"Well, I've had enough" said
Welch as he punctuated his statement with a yawn. "I'm going to get some sleep. Feel free to look through my notes. Don't stay up too late. See you in the morning."

"I think y
ou've got a good idea there, about sleeping that is." Austin replied. "I've had a headache for two hours because of that damned TV screen."

Welch was already half-way out the door when he stopped. "By the way, my notes on the Grapevine's
flight envelope we got last Thursday are in my desk, upper left hand drawer. It's unlocked. Good night."

"Good night, Jim."
Austin hit the rewind button. He figured he would watch the first few hours of the May Day parade again, but without taking any notes, just listening to the commentary of the Soviet newsmen. He took advantage of the rewind time to close his eyes and rest his brain, but the machine was too fast for him and the tape was ready to roll in seconds.

We must never end our vigilance! The imperialist capitalist forces are like a cornered animal. The oppressed masses of the earth are realizing the power they have. But do not expect the struggle to be easy; the cornered animal will strike in fear one day. When this day comes, comrades, we must, we will be prepared for the final victory of humanity over oppression!

The words of this Soviet commentator were not unknown to Austin. His job forced him to listen to many such propagandists, and he always listened carefully. He wanted to understand his adversaries. Austin had studied Russian in college. But it was the American taxpayer that paid to turn Robert Austin into a fluent speaker of the Russian language in an eight month immersion course. That was in his first year with the DIA. He had listened to so much Russian since, that he was starting to think in the language and even to lose his American accent when he spoke it.

The Soviet cameras panned the reviewing stand, showing the highest of the Russian hierarchy in all their glory.
Suddenly it was there.
Something is wrong!
Austin hit the pause button.
What is it? Not something that is there, something that isn't there.
Austin's eyes darted from figure to figure on the reviewing stand.
Not something, someone! Someone is not there
.

Every Kremlin watcher knew the importance of the reviewing stand
on May Day. Where one sat was determined solely by one's status in Moscow. And someone's status had fallen. Austin saw it. In the fifth seat to the right of the minister of defense was a marshal from the Kremlin. Austin did not recognize the face, but he knew the face that should have been there. That was the seat of Marshal Ivan Vazhnevsky – or at least it had been for the past six years.

Austin knew Vazhnevsky well; he commanded two armies stationed in the Ukra
inian Province. They would be the first Soviet troops called to the front if ever war broke out in Europe – the Soviet counterparts of the American 82
nd
Airborne Division or the 1
st
Armored Division. As such they were always the first units to receive new weapons, and Austin had seen a thousand photographs and videotapes of Vazhnevsky and his staff reviewing those new weapons systems.

This new bit of intelligence was completely outside Austin's area of concern, but now his curiosity was challenging his professionalism.
The name, what is his name? David … no … Don. Don Clements. In charge of tracking Soviet military personnel. I have to call Don Clements now
.

"Hi, Janet.
Could you please get me Don Clements, Unit Analyst at Alpha Lima. This is a code five call; I'm punching in my com code now."

"Yes, Mr. Austin.
Just a second," came the reply from the late shift communications officer. Austin hung up and waited for the call-back as Janet entered the necessary codes to place a call outside the building. Neither Janet nor Austin knew the location of the building they referred to as Alpha Lima, but then Don Clements did not know the location of this building which he called Alpha Golf.

"Robert, how are you?"
The cordiality on Clements' part was pushing it, but Austin was the right man to be friends with and Clements felt honored to get a call from this man whose fame had spread throughout the elite community of intelligence analysts.

"Oh, I'm just great."

"Listen,” continued Clements, “I never got a chance to thank you for that information regarding the Alfa subs last month. I know the connection may seem strange to you, but it helped me to track down a rather elusive Russian commodore. What can I help you with?" There was sincerity in Clements' voice.

"I need a little reciprocation in the info department and this is right down your alley."
Austin was tired and in no mood to beat around the bush. "I take it you've been watching the May Day parade?" Austin had said it as a question and now waited for a reply.

“Just like you, Robert. It’s the only reason I would be here late on a Sunday night.” Clements voice had suddenly lost its familiarity. He kne
w what Austin was about to ask.

"Then you've seen who's missing?"
Again a question. There was a slight pause, but for Austin it was a pause that held a thousand words.

"Who?"
Clements scolded himself for his obvious transparency. Lying was not one of his specialties.

"
Oh, come on, Don. What's the story with Vazhnevsky? Is he dead, in the hospital, or what?"

"Listen, Robert, this is not an ar
ea you should be curious about. All I can tell you on this is that we lost track of him three days ago and the Russians have said nothing about it – and I mean nothing."

"So what do you think has happened?"

“I’m not even going to speculate. I should have guessed that you would be the one to notice.” Clements had said one sentence too much.

“What the
hell is that supposed to mean?”

"Nothing.
I just meant that as far as I know you're the only person in the DIA outside of my unit who even noticed Vazhnevsky's absence. It was just a compliment." It wasn't. "You've got to understand my position. You are asking me about something that I don't know the answer to yet, and I'm being pressed to find that answer fast." Clements was now on a tack with which Austin could empathize. "Look, I'm sorry, but it's just too premature for me to go into this. Think of my position … and besides, I don't have the info anyway." Clements made sense and Austin decided not to press him further.

"You're right.
Thanks for telling me what you do know. Bye, Don."

"If you ever need
me for something else just call. I still owe you. Bye." Clements' message was obvious: Austin had learned all he would learn from Clements on this matter and he shouldn't bother calling back later.

But Don Clements knew more
than he had revealed and it was fear, not duty, which kept his mouth shut.

Two flashes of light cut into the tranquility of the night. The ripples of the Elbe River were illuminated for brief instants. The response came quickly: three flashes – simple but sufficient. Pulses hastened their beat on both sides; all were eager to complete this transaction.

"
Wir gehen jetzt." The CIA man barked his orders to his German underlings, who replied with typical Teutonic efficiency. The motor boat lurched forward and was soon planing along the surface at open throttle. Its destination was a green navigation light a thousand meters up river.

Th
eir cargo was quiet. The two KGB intermediaries were on their way home and were no doubt apprehensive about the welcome they would receive. Would it be Siberia or a desk job in Sevastopol? It didn't matter much; vodka was readily available anywhere. The two had been caught red-handed by the FBI over a year earlier accepting confidential documents from an ITT night janitor. Neither the two lowly KGB agents nor the FBI would learn that the seemingly dim-witted janitor was really a CIA counter-intelligence operative, a master at his craft. That the FBI openly gloated over "their" catch had to be tolerated as a consequence of the profession. But that very minor operation was long over and now an exchange was the business at hand: two convicted spies for one Soviet family.

David Margolis peered through the nighttime scope which magnified light 10,000 times.
From the hill where he stood he could easily watch the intrigue below. As a Jew and an Israeli he did not at all care to work inside Germany or with Germans. In fact, it took all his professional discipline to force himself to step foot in West Germany as a friend and not a foe. But he had to be here. He had to watch the exchange which the CIA had set up at his request. As a respected agent of the Mossad and an ex-American citizen, he was able to ask the CIA for such favors.

The necessity had arisen three weeks earlier when an unexpected order came from the Kremlin.
Alexandr Govenin, once revered physicist in the Soviet Union, now well-known dissident among Western academia, would be allowed to emigrate to Israel, the land of his forefathers. Any nuclear secrets that he held were known by the West years earlier. The speculation by the New York Times was that he was given permission to leave as a goodwill gesture by Yuri Andropov to demonstrate that he would be a reasonable leader. And Govenin’s relative obscurity within the Soviet Union itself – he was no Sakharov – made him a perfect pawn. Internally, Andropov was busy positioning himself as a hardliner who could stand up to Reagan.

Doctor Govenin arrived in Israel to some fanfare.
After the initial press conference in Tel Aviv, Govenin had settled down for the interrogations he knew were inevitable. He was not wrong. Within forty-eight hours the men from Mossad, the CIA and MI-6 – memories being long in this profession, the latter two were allowed to participate for unspecified future favors – realized that Dr. Govenin had little to offer the West. He had been excluded from any important research for the past two decades, evolutionary cycles in the world of high technology. Through it all David Margolis' job had been to insure the safety of Alexandr Govenin, protecting him from both the KGB and his own interrogators.

Once the inquisition was finished
, Margolis had moved on to other matters; Govenin knew nothing that would cause a KGB visit. But David Margolis had grown to admire Alexandr Govenin and he empathized with Govenin's oft-stated desire to get his wife, his son and his daughter-in-law out of the Soviet Union. David's parents still lived in the Chicago suburb of Skokie where they had been since leaving Russia on the same day in 1938 that Neville Chamberlain pronounced Herr Hitler a “gentleman.” Margolis had begged his parents to join him in Israel, but their Illinois roots simply ran too deep and they did not share David's fanatical belief in a Jewish homeland.

David's farewell to Govenin included a phone number to be used only in an absolute emergency.
It was not something he was required to do, but the admiration was too deep, the sorrow too complete.

It took only a week for Govenin to call.
Margolis cursed himself for his moment of weakness. He was sure that Govenin only needed a shoulder to cry on and, admiration or not, he was just too busy to play counselor to a new immigrant.

"David, I must speak with you as soon as possible.
It's crucial." Govenin's Hebrew was almost as good as Margolis', but neither was great.

"Dr. Govenin,
I have very pressing business to attend to at the moment. Perhaps we could have lunch this weekend."

"No, no!"
There was urgency in the physicist's voice that he was trying desperately not to show. He was failing at his attempt. Margolis did not have to strain to pick it up. "You do not understand the gravity of what I must tell you. It cannot be spoken over the phone."

David Margolis had a good grasp of human nature. It was a skill that he had come to realize was critical to surviving in his chosen profession. He understood the importance of this situation to the aging physicist. His words were designed to try to calm Govenin. “All right, I will try to be over there within an hour and then we will talk. I hope you will have a good tale to tell me.”

“I will, tovarich, I will.”

Margolis acted swiftly. Govenin had succeeded in duping his highly-experienced interrogators whose job was to learn all there was to know from the Russian physicist. They had not achieved their goal and Margolis instinctively
knew that only something important or life-threatening would motivate the physicist to keep his secret this long. Two Mossad agents were outside Govenin’s government-supplied flat within minutes. The inquisitors had reached the wrong conclusion; this physicist knew something important, perhaps even something that could bring KGB assassins. Margolis was determined to hedge against that possibility. Or was Govenin simply playing a cruel hoax to get his young friend to come visit a lonely man overwhelmed in a new country? David would know soon enough.

“Please sit down, David. I have a little to tell you and big proposition to make.” The
words had their desired effect; David’s curiosity rose to a new pitch.

“You are a fascinating old man, Dr. Govenin. I am ready to listen.” Margolis sat down on the couch opposite Alexandr Govenin.

“I must say that I was surprised by the tenacity of your people, or whoever they were. Did they expect Moscow to let someone leave who knew anything important? Yes, yes ...” Govenin waved his right hand through the air, as if wiping away an unpleasant memory. “I realize that it was necessary, but the third day was almost too trying for me. I wasn’t sure if my heart would make it.” There was the hint of a smile on the Govenin’s lips.

Margolis concentrated on every nuance on the man’s face and every movement of his body. His job was to assess the veracity of whatever story he was about to hear. He had to weigh this story against any ulterior motive the physicist had, and both men knew well that Govenin had left his family in the Soviet Union. “I noticed,” Margolis said with a smile that was sincere. He didn’t realize it, but he was on the edge of his seat.

Govenin took a sip from a cup of tea that had been sitting on the end table to his left. Margolis had not previously noticed it.

“I’m sorry, would you care for some tea?”
the physicist asked. Margolis shook his head. It was not tea that could quench his thirst right now. Govenin continued, “May we go for a walk? I have not been outside yet today and I’m afraid my old lungs need the fresh air.” He did not wait for an answer. He arose and was at the door with the spring of a man much younger than seventy. Margolis instantly knew that Govenin’s true reason for this afternoon stroll was that he didn’t trust the apartment they were in. Too many potential ears. The physicist had, after all, spent his career in a country where any room might be bugged and any old friend might be working for the secret police.

As they emerged on the street, David immediately caught the eye of one of his men. A slight roll of the eyes was all he needed to convey his orders: they were to be followed at a discreet distance. “I have a revelation to tell you first, Dr. Govenin. My Russian is quite fluent. In fact, I speak it far better than Hebrew.” Margolis had spoken the last sentence in fluent Russian to prove his point. “I suggest we use your nativ
e language for this discourse.”

Govenin paused and looked Margolis straight in the eye. He laughed. "Oh, you are a sly one, Mr. Margolis. Russian it will be, and now I shall begin."

Govenin collected his thoughts in order to present his story in a very precise way. "As you know, I have spent the past three years teaching at Lomonosov Moscow State University. I wanted to emigrate, but I was never vocal about it; you must understand that. If I had ever expressed my views in class I would have been unemployable the next day and quickly judged a social parasite." These were bitter memories for the physicist, but he tried not to show his bitterness. "Did you hear that I will be teaching at Hebrew University next fall?" He said it in an upbeat way to break the tension, but Margolis would not have it.

"I knew before you did,
" David replied. His face showed no emotion, nothing. It was a void and it meant that he was primed for business and would not tolerate any deviation from the subject at hand. "You were discussing Moscow University. Please continue."

"Bravo, tovarich."
Govenin rarely encountered this professional intensity in the Soviet Union. He considered it the biggest difference between East and West. "My years there were uneventful. When I wasn't teaching, I was in limbo, an outcast from any important research. But I still had my friends. You see, I was once a very powerful scientist. When I was young I was a devout party member. Does that surprise you, David?" Govenin's attempt to crack David's emotional sang-froid was unsuccessful. He knew that his new Israeli friend had done his homework. "No, no, I see it doesn't surprise you at all. You are a thorough man, but I suppose that is brought about by a desire to survive in your business." They continued walking as the physicist regrouped his thoughts.

"My old friends could not socialize with me, of course, but they would send a postcard from time to time. The postcard
to make it easy for the KGB. They could never say anything more than 'hello.'" Govenin stopped and leaned against a wall; he waited for a Hassidic Jew to pass.

"
A few days before I left, a friend and colleague knocked on my office door. I had not heard from him in six years. He handed me a note telling me to be silent because of listening devices in my office and saying to meet him at our old drinking spot at twenty-hundred that night. We met and he proceeded to inform me that he knew I was scheduled to leave the Soviet Union soon. He never told me how he knew and I was always too frightened to ask. He also told me that he had recently spent a day lecturing a certain marshal and his staff about the capabilities and limitations of the SS-20. That marshal was Ivan Vazhnevsky, commander of two …" Govenin stopped himself; he had broken through David's emotional wall, but this time he hadn't been trying. "You know the name?"

"Vazhnevsky has been missing since yesterday.
He was not at Lenin's Mausoleum during the May Day Parade and no one knows where he is.”

Govenin looked away.
He began walking back toward his flat but with more haste than earlier. "Now listen closely, tovarich. My friend had learned something, and now I know that his discovery was not trivial – it directly concerned General Timenko, a key aide to Vazhnevsky."

Margolis grabbed the physicist's shoulder.
"Tell me one thing, doctor. Did your friend tell you this so you could tell Western intelligence?"

“
Yes.”

Margolis acted quickly. He told one agent to bring around their car.
He pushed Govenin in and followed quickly. "Head for 'Yahweh' and make one transfer on the way," he ordered the driver. "Yahweh," the Old Testament name for God, was their codename for a safe house in Tel Aviv. They would switch cars once. Neither Margolis nor the physicist spoke a word on the way. They arrived in twenty minutes.

"Your things will be collected and brought over shortly. Now you must tell me what he said." There was desperation in David's voice.

"No, my friend. Now we will make a bargain. I want my family here and you have the ability to make that happen. When they are here, I will talk to you twenty-four hours later."

"You can't be serious.
Do you expect me to call the premier and say 'Hey, old friend, how about sending the Govenins over’?"

"Do not play with me, David.
It does not take a genius to realize that you are a powerful and resourceful man in Israeli intelligence. No, no, you can do it and you know it." The physicist held a royal flush.

"I could force you to talk.
There are drugs that you know nothing of."

Govenin laughed.
"You are a poor liar, tovarich. I am too old and fragile for such treatment. You have my offer, now do we have a deal?"

David walked into the small kitchen and emerged a minute later with a bottle of Coke in his hand.
"We have a deal, but I need proof that you have something valuable to me."

"I thought you would.
My friend's name is Ustinov. Vladimir Ustinov. He works at a top-secret research facility about an hour south and east of Moscow along the banks of the Volga. You may not know of it, but others in your organization will. I'm sure that you will be able to find that Ustinov made a trip to Kiev on state business."