The Falstaff Enigma (4 page)

As the unmarked car lurched its way slowly through morning Ankara traffic, Austin thought of his wife. She was tall and elegance radiated from her. Her figure seemed preserved in its youthful perfection even though she was at an age when any lapse from perfection was certainly excusable, if not expected. Her beauty derived as much from the way she carried herself, a reflection of her confidence and bearing. Austin thought about her eyes, the eyes that had first attracted him eight years ago at one of the many Manhattan parties that his position had made necessary. They were blue. A stunning light shade of blue that mesmerized men and made wives reach for their husbands' arms. Eyes that belied an impressive intellect, an intellect that convinced Austin this was the right woman for him.

And then there was her
hair. Austin was tempted to describe it as that of a goddess, but he told himself that his love for her made him exaggerate. He was not exaggerating. Her hair was a shimmering black, vibrant, alive. Austin longed to touch it.

His love.
His life. He had been forced to lie to her and he did not like that. He wondered  what life would be like if he were a spy? How could he or anyone else habitually lie to the person they loved? It must be an acquired talent, he thought. But she had known he was lying and in her wisdom had known not to press the matter. It was his weakness again. He would never be a good liar.

"How much longer
do you estimate?" the analyst asked. Austin was leaning forward and awaited an answer from his Company-supplied driver, who had no idea who Austin was.

"I'm sorry about this congestion, sir.
It will be another thirty minutes at least," came the reply in surprisingly good English. The Turkish driver was embarrassed, as if he were personally responsible for delaying this important American.

Austin felt bad.
"Were you educated in the States?"

"Yes, sir.
Purdue. I received my degree in electrical engineering.”

Austin was impressed.
He wanted to ask how this young man came into the employ of the CIA. He knew he could not. The driver rolled down the window of the Peugeot sedan and yelled at a crowd of pedestrians passing in front of the car. No one even bothered to look. It was the signal to end the conversation. The driver did not want Austin to know any more, nor was he allowed to ask anything of his passenger.

Austin recognized the driver's position.
He turned his thoughts back to work. When he had boarded the huge cargo plane the day before, he had been handed a packet of information by a Company liaison man. It was confiscated by the same man shortly before landing. Half of the packet contained reports about which Austin was very familiar. They included all that was available on this new Soviet tactical nuclear missile. Austin had taken two hours to review the material and formulate the questions he would ask Poltovsky.

The other half of the packet was materia
l Austin had never seen before. It was a biographical profile of General Fyodor Poltovsky in detail he had not imagined possible.
Memories. 1984
. The names. The dates. They were endless. A page devoted solely to his mother and another to his father.
Incredible
. Austin thought about his own life. How many intelligence agencies around the world had a similar file on him? For the first time in his government career Austin realized the deadly gravity of the game in which he was involved.

Poltovsky was born to peasant parents in 1910 in the Ukra
inian city of Kharkov. His was a success story made possible by the revolution. He was able to attend college in Leningrad, where he was recognized by his teachers as an exceptional mathematics student. He was also a devout party member and there was no evidence of that devotion having wavered in any way since.
Why, then? Why did he defect?
He had even worked as a party organizer in Kharkov while Stalin purged his officer corps of the impure.

Like most others, Poltovsky was thrust into the Army after the outbreak of the Great Patriotic War.
Like few others, he relished his new job. At Stalingrad he was in command of a detachment of 150 men who were often in the thick of the battle. Poltovsky did not shy from the front. He quickly developed a reputation for being fearless under fire. His exploits in the battle led to a personal commendation from the great Marshal Zhukov himself. By the time of the fall of Berlin, Poltovsky was a major in command of three thousand combat troops.

After the war Poltovsky remained a soldier's officer,
keeping his nose clean from partisan politics while continuing to espouse Marxian communism – with whatever twist was popular at the time – always a safe route inside the Soviet Union. His strategy was successful. Each succeeding leader promoted him in an attempt to align him. He remained aloof. His popularity with his troops and his political non-alignment assured survival.

He had been married in 1939 and had five children.
All still lived. None was an embarrassment.
It is missing. It should be here
. Austin could not find the slip, the indiscretion. Nothing in this file was bad enough to force Poltovsky to leave his homeland, his wife, his children. The man was a party faithful, apparently admired in Moscow, intelligent and a genuine war hero. Yet there was something, some dark secret, that made him give up all he had lived for. Austin had spent over two hours on the general's file but could find nothing. It must have been removed.
Yes, that's it.
It must have been part of the deal. His indiscretion, or indiscretions, were expunged. Perhaps he was homosexual? Perhaps he had a penchant for a particular prostitute? Or was he trapped in a one-time mistake? The possibilities were endless but usually came down to some sexual indiscretion or another. But among the power elite in the Soviet Union, sexual indiscretion was the payoff – the perk that came after decades of towing the line and kissing the right rear ends. Austin told himself it would have to wait. It would be a secondary and personal goal of his interrogation of the general.

Finally the sedan pulled up to the gate of the
U.S. Embassy. It looked to Austin much like a large post office in New York or Chicago. Except that in Ankara, the building was wedged into a long line of buildings that formed the edge of Ataturk Boulevard. He was sure the security for this building was there, it was just hard to tell. There was one sure tell, however, to let the educated know that this was the embassy of a major power: the roof bristled with antennae.

The gate was opened enough to allow a young Marine to walk to the driver's window.
His partner stood by the guardhouse safely within the sanctuary of the gate. Austin was surprised to see that the second guard had a loaded M-16 in his hands. Embassy guards generally keep such weapons out of sight. The driver showed his identification and then the young Marine glanced back at Austin. He had been given a photograph, the face matched, the clearance was given. The sedan was driven to a side door. The door swung open, reminding Austin of a vault. A Marine officer stepped out, followed closely by a man in his forties, wearing a suit sans jacket. The officer opened Austin's door.

"Mr. Austin."
The civilian offered his hand. "Welcome to Turkey. My name is Mark Ridgeway and this is Captain Hendricks, in charge of the Marine contingent here." Austin turned to shake the officer's hand. The sedan was driven off to the embassy garage, where it was to remain available to Austin. "If you'll follow me, I'll brief you on our guest." Ridgeway had already turned and was headed into the embassy. Austin followed quickly, suddenly finding it uncomfortable to be out in the open. The street was lined by buildings that were three or four floors high; the vantage points for snipers were many.

They walked down a hall and entered what appeared to be Ridgeway's office.
Austin noticed that they had lost the Marine officer. "Please have a seat." Ridgeway gestured to a chair in front of his desk. Austin complied. He had managed only a few hours sleep on the flight and was now feeling it. "Would you like a drink?" Austin shook his head. "Wine? Beer? Anything?"

"Do you happen to have any German beer?"

“As a matter of fact,” Ridgeway reached down and opened a small refrigerator. He pulled out a bottle. “I have …” he read the label, “an Erfurt Pilsener. How does that sound?”

"Great.
How about a sandwich to go with it?"

"You've got it."
Ridgeway placed a call. The embassy was equipped to satisfy any culinary taste.

"Now, I'm sure you've been wondering who I am.
I'm not the ambassador; he's in Washington right now, but I am with the State Department. My specialty is handling defectors. Specifically, I arrange new identities if they are desired, new neighborhoods, employment, transit, et cetera. While the general is here, I'm responsible for his well-being, which means that I get to sit in on all interrogations. Just to make sure things don't get out of hand."
Out of hand
? Austin felt as if he were being viewed more as a torturer than an interrogator. "I understand you speak Russian as well as any Soviet citizen.” It was a question.

“Ye
s. It was my minor as an undergrad."

“
At Yale, correct?"

"I see they have informed you
well." Austin thought about what his CIA dossier must be like.

"Hardly, only enough to paint a very impressive portrait.
It seems that I'm one of the few in this business who have never heard of you. They showed me the folly of my ignorance. Phi Beta Kappa graduate of Yale. Off to the University of Chicago to earn a doctorate in economics while simultaneously working as a stockbroker. Top defense industry analyst in New York. Then on to become the most respected voice on Soviet weapons systems in the intelligence community. That is all they told me, almost verbatim. It is not a background I will soon forget and I imagine that I would be in more trouble if I let something happen to you than I would be if something happened to the general."

Austin was close to blushing. He said nothing.
All he could do was to take another gulp of beer.

Ridgeway noticed that Austin was uncomfortable.
He derived some satisfaction from that. "Anyway, my point is that my Russian is only so-so and my knowledge of weaponry is far less, but I'll still have to sit in."

"Fine.
I understand," Austin responded.

There was a knock on the door.
A chef entered with a turkey sandwich. It seemed to be the low point of his career; he was more than happy to get rid of it. Austin was happy to eat it.

Ridgeway continued.
"As for the general, he is old but in excellent condition, which means you can push him a little."

"Excuse me, but I think they neglected to tell you that I've never done anything like this before.
I've never interrogated anyone."

The news hit Ridgeway by surprise. “I don’t understand. I thought you did this all the time.”

"No. I'm an analyst and an analyst only. This is a once-in-a-career deal. By the way, what is your clearance?"

"Don't
worry, it's higher than yours.” He had not said it in a mean way, only as a statement of fact.

"Just so you know,
I will be asking Poltovsky about a new Soviet tactical nuclear missile."

"Thank you."
Ridgeway knew that Austin volunteered the information out of respect. It was the respect that the older State Department man needed to receive from the brilliant analyst in front of him. Mark Ridgeway was simply not used to taking a back seat to anyone, and his ego would not let him admit that he was now firmly seated in the rear.

It took Austin little time to consume his sandwich. Ridgeway stood up and grabbed Austin's small overnight bag.
"I'll take you to your room now. Judging by your eyes, you look as if you could use a nap."

"You judge correctly."
Austin stood up and followed Ridgeway back into the hall. They boarded an elevator and Ridgeway pushed the button marked with the number four. "When will I be able to meet with General Poltovsky?"

"That depends on your strategy."

Strategy
? The thought hadn't crossed Austin's mind. "To be honest, I have not thought about it. You're the expert. What are your suggestions?"

The elevator door opened and Ridgeway stepped out and turned to his left.
"I think you should join the general and me in an early dinner, say four this afternoon. Just so you can informally get to know each other. Afterwards, we can retire to a drawing room and then you should ask the general your questions. Much the way a reporter would handle it."

Austin was relieved.
This strategy was plausible and sounded easy. He had pictured having the general in a small, dark cubicle with a bright lamp in front of his eyes as questions were fired in rapid succession. "Good. That's the way we'll do it."

They reached Austin's room and entered.
It looked like a typical American hotel room, even down to the attached bathroom and color television, true luxuries by European standards. Or was this the Middle East? Turkey certainly had a foot in both worlds.