Sleeper Spy (21 page)

“The Director never does any fieldwork,” Yelena protested to Davidov. “Why are you doing this? If the Director makes a mistake, there can be no review.”

Davidov nodded. “Some American foreign service officers do not like summit meetings. They say, if the President misses the tackle, there is no one between him and the goal line.”

She was not familiar with the American football metaphor. “Remember how our dangle took in Casey himself, and the whole CIA was a laughingstock? That could happen to us, with you doing fieldwork yourself.”

He shrugged. She was right, but the time spent with Liana Krumins had been the most enjoyable hour he had spent in months.

“You wanted the original birth certificate of this woman,” she said. “Here it is. The facts on the replacement copy in the file are identical, down to the hour she was born.”

He laid the two documents side by side, verified that, then examined the original. Davidov, trained in the more practical aspects of epistemology, was attuned to anomalies, and here was one plain to see. All the facts of name, date, hour, hospital were in one handwriting in one color ink, but the name in the space for father was in a lighter shade. The father’s name—a Latvian name—was filled in by another hand, days or months later, seeking to imitate the other handwriting. There was no erasure or other alteration; the space had been left blank,
presumably until a suitable father could be found, and then the name, Ojars Krumins, had been written in by the registrar of births.

“What name should have been there?”

“I am willing to bet the name is Aleks Berensky, the bastard son of Shelepin and his private secretary.” He put it in a way that would strike home to his assistant. “It’s as if you and I had a child, Yelena, and I send you off to Latvia to marry a respectable husband and bring up the boy. But I keep my eye on that boy, of course—he’s my natural son—and when he grows up and marries unwisely and impregnates that unsuitable girl against my wishes, I am angry at him.”

It fell into place in his mind as he explained it. “The son is now eighteen, a reluctant father himself, and tired of the girl he married. He realizes he has nearly wrecked his career. But I, his father, tell him that there is hope for him. He could have a new life on a most important and exciting assignment. He could be trained and sent to America under deepest cover, with no contact with any other agents, to make a career until he is called upon to serve his country.”

“His wife and baby?”

“After Shelepin’s son accepts the assignment, the wife becomes an inconvenience to the State, especially since she wants to bear the baby. Aleks drops out of sight, becomes a nonperson, trains at our American Village. The unwanted wife has her baby. Shelepin sends the rejected mother away from Moscow to Latvia, arranging for some Latvian to marry her, or at least to raise her daughter as his daughter. His name, Krumins, goes on the space left blank for father on the birth certificate.”

Yelena nodded. “And Shelepin’s son, Aleks Berensky, has no ties to anyone in Russia.” She thought about that. “Possible. In the sixties, the Director of the KGB could do anything. He provided a good marriage for his secretary, Anna, when their son, Aleks, was born; he could easily have done almost the same for the son’s wife when she became, as you say, inconvenient.”

“I am willing to bet that the man once named Aleks Berensky is the sleeper agent now in America.” He waited for the import of that guess to sink in.

“Then you are saying,” said Yelena, finally catching up with him, “that Liana Krumins is the sleeper’s daughter.”

Davidov felt, for the first time in his brief tenure, that he was truly the chief of a directorate of the state security agency. “That is a useful piece of information for us to have. The Feliks people have connections to old hands in the KGB, and especially our retirees, who knew that the agent in America is Liana’s father. That is why they chose her, of all the journalists in the country, to lead the search.” That was the question that had been nagging at him: why this particular reporter?

“And here’s the delicious irony, Yelena: she doesn’t know it. She thinks she’s onto a big story. She has no idea the man she is looking for is her father.”

The analyst fell behind again. “But why doesn’t somebody tell her?”

“Because we—and the Feliks people—expect her father to look for her. Liana Krumins is the bait. And the best bait does not know it is bait.”

Davidov allowed himself to wallow in his insight for a while, then got to work. He called in the only supervisor he more than half trusted in the counterespionage section of the Fifth Directorate and told him to evaluate, in his new knowledge of who the sleeper was, who within the Fifth Directorate knew or should have known it. That would reveal who had been deliberately withholding that fact from the Director. Those were the new moles loyal to their old colleagues now among the Feliks people, to be exposed by what they failed to do; they would have to be arrested, removed, or turned.

And he would need a new team of investigators drawn from the central bank, the Oil Ministry, the grain traders, perhaps the new Russian entrepreneurs, to answer the questions for the KGB that the American investigators, Fein and Shu, were asking on behalf of their CIA control.

KGB surveillance of Liana would have to be obvious; the Feliks people expected it, and it established her bona fides with them as a person mistrusted by the Russian government. But a second, subtler level of surveillance would have to be in place as well, to detect any approach to her from the sleeper, her father, who had the resources that made him, in the accountant Shu’s intercepted phrase, “the richest man in the world.”

That was why the Feliks people had enlisted her, though she did not know it; it might also be why Shu, who worked for Fein—a possible CIA asset, but KGB and CIA had parallel interests here—had established
a link with her. Sooner or later the father could be expected to reach out for the daughter he had abandoned, especially if he learned she was reaching out to him. The subtle watchers would observe the Feliks people watching the KGB following the sleeper’s daughter, and would provide her a measure of protection as well.

All this might take more fieldwork on the part of the head of the Fifth Directorate, Davidov decided; but with the goal line at his back, he had better not miss the tackle. This was why he had been vaulted over more experienced, traditional operatives to be placed in this position; no other case was as vital to Russian national stability and international security, and at least he could trust himself.

Edward Dominick’s reaction to Irving Fein was negative the instant the renowned reporter walked in the door. Fein lunged into the office without a modicum of deference to the lovely young woman who accompanied him.

The Memphis banker was reminded of a remark made by his late wife, looking out the window of the Plaza Hotel, where the Dominicks stayed on visits to New York City. She saw the gilded statue of Union General William Tecumseh Sherman, scourge of the South, mounted on a horse being led by the goddess of liberty; Mrs. Dominick, until her death a national board member of the Daughters of the Confederacy, observed, “Isn’t that just like a Yankee to ride while the lady walks?”

Dominick reached past Fein’s outstretched hand to grasp the hand of Viveca Farr. The television newsperson was shorter than he had expected. He didn’t know why he was surprised at that—he had never seen her full-length before—but her onscreen carriage gave the impression of a taller woman. Fein was tallish but slumped, eyes darting, uncomfortable in his own skin, not the sort to be lent substantial funds no matter what his collateral. Dutifully, the banker shook his hand as well—the reporter’s idea of a handshake was a single furtive pump, in contrast to the authoritative grip of his companion’s—and motioned them to the couch against the wall in the sitting area of his spacious office.

“Great digs for a little bank,” said Irving Fein.

“Memphis Merchants Bank may have only two hundred million in
reserves,” Dominick said cheerily, “but some of our customers find us able to meet their local needs. And on global matters, our correspondent bank in your hometown of New York is the Chemical.”

“What Mr. Fein meant was,” said the young woman, “that we Easterners often have a stereotype of a medium-sized Midwestern bank that’s usually wrong. This is an impressive office.” She looked admiringly at a bronze statue of a cowboy on a horse descending a steep slope. “That’s a Remington, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but a reproduction, of course. Whatever it is that brings you to Memphis, Miss Farr, I want you to know how much I enjoy your newscasts. Sometimes you’re the only reason we watch your network.” The flattery had the added advantage of being true. Everyone in the bank’s employ had been alerted to her visit, so as to get a good look, and to point out the television star to the customers. “And your reputation, Mr. Fein, precedes you. I cannot say I’ve read your work, but my friends at the
Commercial-Appeal
have high regard for it.”

“You checked us out, huh?”

“It’s not every day I get such distinguished visitors.” He was not going to ask that they get to the point; he enjoyed her presence. The nightly newsflash would never be the same.

“What I’m saying is, I hope you checked us out with a mutual friend in Washington.” When Dominick maintained his most inscrutable smile, Fein stated the purpose of his visit, and as the press would say, put the story in the lead: “We’re here to interest you in helping us solve the greatest theft of the century.”

“Let’s see, the Brink’s robbery was three million—”

“No, no. That was a piddling little heist, compared to what we’re after.” Fein stopped fidgeting and looked directly at him. “We’re talking about a major swindle, bigger than BCCI, bigger than Keating and his S&L. The figures involved are mind-boggling, because they involve a deliberate milking of a major government treasury. Interested?”

When Fein awaited some response, Dominick maintained a poker face and said only, “Tell me more.”