High Jinx (5 page)

‘Those poor bastards,' Anthony Trust said.

6

It did not surprise Boris Andreyvich Bolgin that ‘
having nearly broken my neck to get here,
' as the British would put it, he was kept waiting—he looked down at his watch and calculated: kept waiting
three hours and twenty-five minutes.

It was now nearly one in the morning. He had been offered tea at ten, and at midnight, cheese and white bread. What Boris Bolgin wanted, what he dearly needed at this hour of the night, was some vodka. Quite a lot of vodka. He was proud that no one knew that this had been so with him since shortly after he got out of the camp, just before the war. Having been in intelligence work ever since then, and in charge of his stations for over ten years, he was almost always able to manage to be alone at night, and it was this, really, that made life possible for him, with his impossible job, with these impossible people. He knew it would be the end if ever it were learned about him that that was what he did every night on reaching home: that and his novels, the great Russian nineteenth-century novels that kept his other self, so to speak, pickled; another existence.

But he had certainly made up for his little delinquency, made up for it in terms of service to the Soviet state. And after all, here he was, after midnight, in one of the ante-chambers of the director of the KGB, on the eighth floor of the renowned Lubyanka Prison at 2 Dzerzhinsky Square, nodding his head, up and down, up and down as he contemplated how much he had accomplished for Stalin during the hours he was
not
drinking, and how much, now—especially now!—he was accomplishing for Georgi Maximilianovich Malenkov, apparently to be the successor to Stalin.

Though, come to think of it, he was not a bit sure how long
that
would last. As chief of KGB-Britain he got to hear rumours about the ongoing contentions, about the great struggles within the Kremlin. It was a hard role for him, that of KGB chief in Great Britain. On the one hand he was expected to know everything going on in the West. On the other hand he was expected to know nothing of what was going on in his own country. True, it was easier to find out what was going on in London and Washington and Paris than in his Moscow. But he could hardly help hearing—experiencing—vibrations of a mounting division. There was factionalism, spying on one another, the sense that no leader without the strength of Stalin was truly a leader. What was wanted, what was needed, was someone of Stalin's strength without Stalin's eccentric vicious-ness. Yes, Bolgin mused … but what was wanted was probably unachievable. He recalled that during the thirties it was said of the French that they desired an army smaller than Great Britain's but bigger than Germany's.

Meanwhile it was Boris Bolgin's lot to work for the master of intrigue himself. He would not be a bit surprised if the man who had now kept him waiting for
three and
—he looked again at his watch—
almost three-quarter
hours ended up there on top of the heap.

You cannot underestimate Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria, almighty head of the KGB, Bolgin thought. Beria, like the other contenders, had coexisted with Stalin, which showed that he was resilient. More than resilient: he was the cutting edge, forcing others' resilience. And he had mastered the arsenal Stalin required in order to orchestrate his own sadism and his eccentricity. Boris, he thought, be very careful—ever so careful, now that Beria had finally gotten around to calling him in. And remember Beria's uniqueness. Someone had said to him not long ago, ‘Boris, I think with the exception of Comrade Stalin, you are the only person who knew Beria in 1934 and still knows him in 1954 whom he has not yet executed!'

Yes, 1934. Boris Bolgin knew Lavrenti Beria in 1934. Beria had been in charge of the tribunal that had sent Bolgin off to the concentration camp, for the sin of having speculated, on one ocasion, in front of someone, that Marxist dogma, in that it predicates ultimately a stateless society, ultimately predicted a society after Stalin. That had cost him seven years of hard labour, successive frost-bites that had permanently contorted his face; cost him his child and his wife, who deserted him. In that special way he had ‘known' Beria. But Bolgin was a skilful agent as well as a polyglot, and what he had now brought forth in Great Britain made him, well, a hero of the Soviet Union, if not a Hero of the Soviet Union. The latter award would certainly have been given him, to be sure in a private ceremony, except that nobody was giving awards since Stalin's death and nobody wanted awards, because to have received an award from Malenkov might mean, if Beria came to power, that all those who had received awards from Malenkov would next be singled out for liquidation. No awards this season—not from Malenkov, not from Bulganin, not from Khrushchev, not from anyone. That was why Bolgin relished his little pun about being a hero
of the Soviet Union
without being a Hero. Oh God, how he would like a glass of vodka. But even if it were sitting there in front of him, he would not touch it. No. Always the same rule: only at home, or in his hotel; only when his duty was done.

The matronly aide opened the door without knocking. It was by no means absolutely clear that
she
had not had a glass of vodka. Her eyes were bleary. But then—he looked yet again at his watch—it was just after one in the morning.

‘Comrade Beria will see you now, Colonel Bolgin.'

Beria did not rise from behind his huge onyx desk, an exquisite facsimile of the map of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, each republic in a native stone. There were five telephones on one side of the desk. When Bolgin had last been here, six months earlier, you could hardly see the panelling on the four walls for the photographs of Stalin that had decorated the chamber: pictures of Stalin and (in most cases) Beria somewhere alongside or in the background; but also others of Stalin alone. With his wonderful, beatific face, Bolgin thought, a shiver running through his body. The walls were now less crowded, and there were pictures here and there of other functionaries.

Beria nodded his head curtly, pointed to the chair on his right. Bolgin sat down.

Beria came right to the point. ‘Did you reach the radio operator in time?'

‘Yes, we reached him five and a half hours after the American, Oakes, got on to him. We of course approached him very carefully—he was in London, on leave from his unit. We had to see whether he was under surveillance. Surprisingly, he was not. I had plans in the event that he was being watched. He is now safely in East Berlin.'

Beria nodded. He then rose, rose in slow motion. And began shouting:

‘
You bloody idiot, you moron, you brainless pig!
'

Bolgin was startled. He had seen Beria-rages before, but he had never been the victim of one. Usually, for the victim, such rages proved lethal. But surely not in his case—not now, in the present circumstances, taking into consideration his quite extraordinary usefulness in London …

Bolgin struggled to get in a word. ‘But Lavrenti Pavlovich, Operation Tirana was a total fiasco for the enemy! Every single one of the agents and counterrevolutionaries was caught!'

‘Idiot, that is
exactly
my point. By your thoroughness you necessarily alerted Washington to the extent of our resources. How long do you expect that we can continue to operate successfully through Caruso under the circumstances? The Americans will have to do something now. If you had let a half dozen get away, or be captured later—whatever. But to place an ambush at
all five
of the landing sites when you advised me that no single piece of paper had written on it more than
one
landing site. And then—sublime stupidity—to let that
idiotic
Albanian send an album to London, just showing off! Showing off! Dulles is not a stupid man. He will suspect organic, total penetration. He will suspect what we have. You, by not using your donkey-brain—excuse me, donkey,' Beria spoke now in a voice of exaggerated deference, such as he had routinely used on the one occasion when Bolgin had been in the same hall with Beria and Stalin—
‘excuse
me, donkey, for insulting your brain by comparing it with Bolgin's!'

The invective lasted a full ten minutes before Beria sat down. Bolgin repeated what he had already stated in a cable: namely, that the Albanian, Firescz, had indeed been instructed to let three agents get away, that on being told about the wretched album Bolgin had had Firescz arrested, that he was at this very minute incommunicado in Tirana, awaiting orders from Moscow on the question of his ultimate disposition. But Bolgin was saying what Beria already knew. Then he simply waited until there was a change in mood. It came quickly. Beria depressed a switch on the side of the desk and spoke the words, ‘Bring vodka.'

Bolgin said nothing. When the vodka came, Beria pointed his index finger first at the waiter, then at Bolgin. This was his way of indicating to the waiter that he was to serve also Bolgin. This was Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria at his hospitable extreme. Boris Bolgin did not dare to refuse the glass, even as he did not dare to drink it. He touched it to his lips, and Beria did not notice, when he poured himself a second dollop, that's Bolgin's glass was undrained. Then Bolgin caught the fleeting smirk on Beria's face. So
Beria knew even that
—
that Bolgin needed his vodka! Was there anything Beria did not know?

‘Nevertheless you are to return. Your contacts are—I never use the word “unique.” Useful. And to be in touch instantly with Caruso. He is to continue to supervise the operation. But effective until I shall see to it that no agent—not in Great Britain, not in Europe, not in America—acts on the basis of any of that information. It will continue, of course, to come to me. If I make an exception to the rule, why, I shall make an exception to the rule. But no one else will make an exception to the rule. I anticipate that this ban by us should last at least three months. It will take that long to tranquilise the Americans. How they will account for the completeness of our knowledge of Operation Tirana we cannot know—they will simply have to continue in doubt. Perhaps they will eventually feel it was a curious coincidence that there were troops at all five landing sites. Did the radio sergeant at the camp know the landing sites?'

‘No, Lavrenti Pavlovich. What he was able to give us, as soon as the orders were received by the commander of the commando camp, was reports on training activity and, finally, the scheduled time of departure. We did not give him the information on the sites.'

‘Well. Caruso has got too valuable a thing there for us to endanger. We will do nothing in the next period, nothing more to suggest to the Americans that we are familiar with their internal communications.'

Beria then paused and leaned forward, lowering his voice. He said with some drama, ‘There are important days ahead for our country, Comrade Bolgin. And
absolute
loyalty from you is expected. I mean by absolute loyalty absolute loyalty; do you understand, Comrade Bolgin?'

‘Yes, Lavrenti Pavlovich.'

Beria stared into his empty glass, essaying nothing. Bolgin calculated that he was safe, and two thoughts brought him great joy. The first was that clearly he was to return quickly to England. The second was that in a matter of moments he would be dismissed, and a very few moments after that happened he would be at his hotel, the Metropole. There, waiting for him, would be his vodka, in the plastic bottles. And at least three books brought from his library. Soon he would be drinking, and reading Chekhov. But he waited, motionless.

It came a moment or two later. ‘That is all, Bolgin.' Boris Bolgin shot up. ‘And, oh yes, Boris Andreyvich, you are to be commended for your work with Caruso. And'—Beria smiled omnisciently—‘for controlling your drinking, if only in my presence.' Bolgin looked down at the little, fleshy man, the odious, sadistic, pulp-faced killer-torturer, and said, ‘You do me great honour, Lavrenti Pavlovich.' He bowed his head, and left the room.

7

The Director grumbled when, at eight in the morning, freshly arrived in his office on E Street in downtown Washington, he was presented with the two-hour-old cable from London.

‘You should have got me out of bed on this one, Halsey,' he said to the duty officer matter-of-factly. And then, into the telephone, ‘Call Rufus and have him come in immediately.'

Rufus was unbelieving. ‘Esperanto' had got away
less than six hours
after we had got on to him?

Well, at least it was absolutely clear what now needed to be done. The Director listened to Rufus and approved the plan. And yes, he would speak to the President about that part of it that needed to be communicated to the Prime Minister.

In London, an hour later, Anthony Trust was surprised that the message hadn't come in through his protected telephone line. No, it had come in the form of a written message, sealed, and handed to him by a clerk who had signed for it at the reception desk. Trust was to repair alone to ‘a telephone you do not frequently use' and to telephone Rufus, in Washington, at a number Anthony Trust was not familiar with.

The communication was made within a half hour. Rufus's voice came in clearly.

‘There is one priority above all others. It is that we learn whether Sergeant Esperanto—you have now his real name and his address—left his apartment in London hurriedly; whether there is reason to expect that he was told he had to leave suddenly. Give this top attention.

‘Now, I do not desire that anyone other than you should know what it is, exactly, that we are trying to find out. We have arranged through diplomatic channels for a police detachment to accompany you to Esperanto's apartment. The magistrate knows nothing except that the U.S. Government has requested a search warrant on grounds satisfactory to British law to conduct a search for stolen U.S. property. Call Scotland Yard and ask for Superintendent Roberts, give him your name, tell him you have spoken to Washington and are ready to meet the search squad. Then get moving. When you have conducted your search, call me back at this number. Understood?'