Snow Wolf (13 page)

The snow had come early to Moscow the
previous November, and now the streets were piled high with thick banks of
slush. It seemed to fall incessantly, giving no letup even to the hardened
citizens of one of the coldest capitals on earth.

As the convoy passed through the Arbat
and headed east along the banks of the frozen Moscow River, Lukin consulted the
list of names and addresses on the metal clipboard on his lap. There were nine,
all doctors, to be arrested that freezing morning.

He turned briefly to his driver.
"We'll take the next left, Pasha."

"As you wish, Major."

The driver, Lieutenant Pasha Kokunko, was
a squat Mongolian in his late thirties. His yellow face and muscular, bowlegged
body gave the impression of a man who would have looked more at home sitting on
a horse on the Mongolian steppes than driving a four-seater Emka sedan.

As Lukin glanced out at the frozen, deserted
streets, the passenger sitting alone in the back leaned forward.

"Comrade Major Lukin, may I see the
arrest list?"

Captain Boris Vukashin was somewhat
younger than Lukin, and had been assigned to his office only a week before.
Lukin handed over the clipboard as the interior light in the back flicked on
behind him.

Vukashin said after a few moments,
"It says here the doctors are all Kremlin physicians. And to judge by the
names, at least five are Jewish. It's about time we got firm with these
Jews."

Lukin turned around. There was a smirk on
Vukashin's face. He had sharp features and a thin, cruel mouth that suggested a
brutal manner, and Lukin had taken an instant dislike to the man.

"Six, actually," he replied.
"Not that it matters whether they're Jews or not. And for your
information, Vukashin, they haven't been tried and found guilty of anything
yet."

"My father says that Comrade Stalin
believes the eminent doctors are involved in a plot to poison half the Kremlin,
and has suspected them for some time."

Lukin blew smoke out into the freezing
cab. Vukashin's father was a senior Party official with friends in the Kremlin.
Lukin said dismissively, "Your father ought to keep his opinions to
himself, at least until the courts have done their work. One mad physician with
a grudge I can understand. But nine?

It beggars belief."

Lukin rolled down the window and a blast
of freezing air stabbed at his face. As he flicked out the remains of the
cigarette and rolled up the window again, Vukashin said frostily, "May I
be permitted an observation, Major Lukin?"

"If you must."

"I think your comment was dismissive
and insulting to Comrade Stalin. My father was simply repeating what Stalin
believes to be true."

Before Lukin could reply, Pasha flicked
him an irritated look. "How come we always get the assholes assigned to
us?" Vukashin said to Lukin angrily, "Really, Major. This man makes a
mockery of my rank. You ought to report him. And if you don't, I will."

"The man's a Mongol. Allowance must
be made for that. Do you know anything about the Mongolian race, Vukashin?

Apart from the fact that they were the
best fighters the Red Army ever had, they're impossible to discipline."

"I know this one needs to be taught a
lesson."

Pasha turned around and glared back at
Vukashin. "Why don't you shut the fuck up? You're getting so far up my
nose I can feel your fucking boots on my chin."

"That's enough, Lieutenant,"
Lukin intervened.

The Mongolian was an excellent policeman,
a good friend, and totally without fear, but Lukin knew he was wildly
undisciplined and quite capable of stopping the car and hauling the captain
from the back seat and beating him half to death, despite their difference in
rank. Besides, carrying out arrests in the early hours of the morning was
always a tense and irritable time, and Vukashin's arrogance didn't help.

Lukin swung around in his seat. "And
with respect, Vukashin, I'm in charge here. And my comment was an observation,
not a criticism. So why don't you do yourself a favor and just sit back and
enjoy the ride."

He turned back and saw Pasha smile
faintly.

"Wipe that grin off your face,
Lieutenant. Take the next left. We're almost there."

The first address was on the left bank of
the Moscow River. It was one of the big old houses from the Tsar's time,
converted into apartments, and one of the better areas in Moscow. Street lamps
blazed onto the frosty snow and the river was frozen solid.

The cavalcade came to a halt and Lukin
climbed out of the Emka. As he lit a cigarette he looked over as Vukashin went
to assemble the men. The captain's face looked white with rage.

Lukin had been wrong not to take
Vukashin's side but his type irritated him. Arrogant, all polished boots and
discipline, and everything done by the book. Lukin saw the men jump down from
the backs of the big, sharp-nosed Zil trucks as Pasha came over, rubbing his
gloved hands to keep out the cold.

The Mongolian lieutenant snorted.
"That bastard's been getting on my nerves all week, Yuri. Can't you get
him transferred back to wherever he came from?"

"Impossible for now, I'm afraid. His
father arranged his posting. So a word of warning-from now on watch yourself
and keep your mouth shut. Are the men ready?"

"Sure."

"OK, let's get this over with."

Lukin crossed to the front door of the
apartment block and rang the bell of number eighteen. He saw a light go on
behind the frosted glass.

The approach often favored by the KGB was
to break down the door of the person being arrested. It immediately put the
victim in a state of unease and softened him up for any interrogation. Lukin,
however, preferred the civilized approach. See the accused and read him the
charge to his face. The first name on the list was Dr. Yakob Rapaport, a
pathologist.

A middle-aged woman wearing a dressing
gown finally opened the door and peered out. Her hair was covered in a net,
curlers underneath. "Yes?"

"My apologies, madam. Is Dr.
Rapaport at home?"

Before the woman could reply, Lukin heard
a voice in the hallway behind her. "What's wrong, Sarah'@ Who's calling at
this unearthly hour?"

The man who appeared had an overcoat
thrown loosely over his shoulders. He wore pajamas and his white beard gave him
a distinguished look. He put on his glasses and peered out at the trucks and
men in the street, then at Lukin.

"Who are you? What is this?"

"Dr. Rapaport?"

"Yes."

"My name is Major Lukin. It is my
duty to have to inform you that you are under arrest on the orders of KGB 2nd
Directorate. I would be grateful if you would kindly get dressed and come with
me. And dress warmly, it's cold outside."

The doctor's face turned chalk white.
"There must be some mistake. I have committed no crime. I don't
understand."

"Neither do I, Doctor. But I have my
orders. So please be so kind as to do as I ask."

The doctor hesitated, and suddenly his
wife put a hand to her mouth and her face was a mask of fear as she stared back
at Lukin.

"Please ..." the woman pleaded.

"Forgive me, madam," Lukin said
as reassuringly as he Could. "Hopefully this is all a misunderstanding.
But it's best if your husband comes now."

The doctor put his arm around his wife's
shoulder and nodded shakily to Lukin.

"Come inside, Major, and I'll get
dressed."

It was almost six when the arrests had
been completed.

Most of the physicians on the list had
come resignedly, but all in shock and some in protest. One had to be dragged
forcibly to the back of a truck. None of the doctors seemed to believe that it
was happening to them.

. At the last address in the Nagatino
district there was an incident, and it was recorded in the KGB arrest report
for that morning. The doctor in question was a widower in his late fifties, and
lived alone on the third floor of the apartment block.

Lukin rang the bell several times but
after a minute there had been no reply and he saw a curtain flicker in one of
the upstairs windows. In exasperation he rang another apartment, and when the
woman tenant appeared and saw the KGB men and vehicles outside she was rooted
to the spot and started to shake, but Lukin went in past her, followed by
Vukashin.

Lukin reached the third floor and pounded
on the door of the doctor's apartment. When Vukashin finally kicked it in, they
found the man hiding in the bathroom. The doctor had obviously seen the men
come to arrest him and was in a state of shock.

Lukin's orders had been to carry out the
arrests discreetly and with no fuss, but before he could get to the doctor,
Vukashin had crossed to the cowering man and started to lash out with his
fists.

"Get up, you Jewish filth! Get
up!"

Lukin came up smartly behind Vukashin and
hit him hard across the back of the neck, a blow that sent the captain crashing
into the wall.

As Vukashin slid down, blood on his face,
Pasha came rushing up the stairs to investigate, his pistol drawn.

Lukin barked, "Get the doctor
downstairs. Now!"

Pasha did as he was ordered and Lukin
dragged the captain to his feet and stared angrily into his face.

"Understand something, Vukashin. You
don't ever hit a prisoner while I'm in charge of an arrest. These are people
you're dealing with, not animals. Have you got that?" Vukashin glared at
Lukin arrogantly but said nothing. A trickle of blood dribbled from his mouth.
Pasha came back up the stairs, and as he came into the room Lukin shoved
Vukashin aside. "Get this idiot out of my sight before I throw up."

Pasha smiled. "A pleasure."

Lukin left KGB Headquarters well after
seven that morning.

Lights were coming on all over Moscow as
he drove to 'his home on the eastern end of Kutuzovsky Prospect.

The olive-green BMW 327 Lukin owned had
been built in 1940, was still reliable and ran sweetly, and the car was the one
worthwhile luxury his KGB officer status allowed.

He parked on the street outside the
one-bedroom apartment he and his wife occupied near the Moscow River. It was in
a district once favored by Moscow's wealthy merchant class, but now the
buildings looked shabby from the outside, the pastelgreen paintwork cracked and
peeling, but inside the plumbing and the heating always worked, a minor miracle
in Moscow. He climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and let himself in
quietly.

The apartment was cold and Nadia was
still asleep. He filled an enamel kettle in the tiny kitchen and lit the gas
stove to make coffee. As he removed his overcoat and unbuttoned his shirt, he
crossed to the window and looked down, resting his forehead against the cold
pane of glass.

As Lukin stood there he thought about the
arrests that morning.

He had lost his temper with the captain
but the arrogant fool deserved it, though no doubt Lukin would receive a
reprimand.

He knew several of the doctors on the
list by reputation. All respected physicians with no hint of crime in their
past. The arrests puzzled him, especially since most of them were Jews. No
doubt he would find out eventually why they had been taken to the Lubyanka.

The KGB Headquarters on Dzerzhinsky
Square which housed the Lubyanka prison was a huge seven-story complex of
office blocks that took up the whole northeastern end as far as the top of Karl
Marx Prospect. The building was actually a hollow square, with a courtyard in
the center, the front and side wings up to the top six floors of which were
devoted to the various KGB offices and departments.

And although it contained eight separate
directorates, or specialized sections, which dealt with internal and external
Soviet security, only four were considered important enough to hold the title
Chief Directorate, of which each had a separate and distinct function.

The 2nd Chief Directorate, to which Lukin
belonged, was perhaps the most important and largest.

A purely domestic security branch of the
KGB, its responsibilities were the most wide-ranging, and included the
surveillance of all foreigners and foreign businessmen resident or visiting the
Soviet Union, foreign embassies and embassy staff; the hunting down and arrest
of Soviet nationals who had fled abroad or escaped from prison camps or who had
committed murder or serious crimes; the supervision of artists, actors and
actresses; recruiting and controlling informers-, and curbing the black market.
And last, but hardly least, the pursuit and capture of enemy agents from the
moment they entered Soviet territory.

There was one other noteworthy section in
the bowels of the KGB building: the Lubyanka prison itself, a grim maze of
torture chambers and windowless cells where Lukin knew the doctors were
destined to be sent.

He poured himself hot coffee and spooned
in three spoonfuls of sugar. As he went to sit at the kitchen table, the door
opened.