The Falstaff Enigma (39 page)

"We could shoot down anything flying between General Ilyan's headquarters in Germany and Minsk," replied Sukoronov, this time not thinking through his answer very clearly.

"You will have only one chance," Marshal Golanov said, his voice registering mild indignation.

"Excuse me, comrades." Borskov's voice was soft and seemed to be coming from another room. His ordinary strategy was to let the titans battle it out, but this was an extraordinary situation. "I know of a way that I think will allow us to identify if and when one of the two men is boarding an aircraft. If we know that much, then the flight plan can be used to arrange the ambush." Borskov waited for a reply from Marshal Sukoronov.

"Go ahead, Colonel," said the Air Force leader.

"Thank you, comrade marshal. Some of you may recall Operation Manifesto. When I was responsible for East European surveillance we modified several Tupolev transport planes and Ilyushin commercial jets to act as listening
posts. These spy planes would be operated by KGB men inside hidden compartments within the planes. The planes were flown to target airfields and parked. They went about their work very quietly and effectively. We even used the Ilyushins in the United States." The colonel smiled as he recalled the successful operation. "We can get two of the transports and land one in Germany and one at Minsk. They will easily pick up everything around them and can broadcast some short code word if they see a target board a plane."

"Good. Very good," Sukoronov
said. "How soon can they be in place?"

"By nightfall, if the planes are ready."

The cockroach scampered slowly across the floor, stopping periodically for no apparent reason. David thought of the ease with which the roach could escape this underground dungeon while he – infinitely more intelligent than the insect – couldn’t get beyond his immediate prison cell. He looked down at his watch. The minute hand was slowly approaching three in the afternoon.

A fist pounded against the door once. Just as suddenly it swung open and the Russian major stood in the doorway. "I apologize for keeping you in here like this, Mr. Berkshire. Soon you will be outside and in your own flat. But I'm glad to find you dressed because Marshal Timolenko would like you to join him for dinner."

"When?”

"Right now."

David did not hesitate. He was out the door in seconds and following the major through the hallways.

"Are you a religious man, Mr. Berkshire?" the Soviet officer
asked as the pair turned down a long corridor.

"In my own way, yes. Why do you ask?"

"The weekend is coming. It will be Sunday soon. I was going to try to find a Holy Bible if you wanted one." David did not reply. He wasn't sure if this was another test. The major soon made it clear that he only needed to get something off his chest. "I was raised in the Greek Orthodox Church, but I stopped attending church when I joined the party a few years ago. The only thing I have left is a couple of icons I keep at home." The major was clearly bitter. He had given up his religion in a belated  bid for promotion. "Don't ever do it, Mr. Berkshire."

"Don't do what?"

"Don't sell your soul for some unimportant gain on earth." Margolis did not respond, allowing the officer to experience his anguish privately. The pair rounded a corner and came face to face with four guards. The sentries snapped to attention, instantly recognizing David's escort. The major opened a door and gestured for David to enter the room first.

The small room
was covered with oak paneling. In the center was a dining table just large enough to seat three people along each side. At one end sat Marshal Timolenko, already raising the first spoonful of soup to his lips. The steam rising from the spoon feigned dissipation as the marshal impatiently exhaled in its direction. He returned the soup to its bowl and rose to his feet as the pair entered the room. "Berkshire, welcome," said Timolenko in hesitant English.

David walked over to the man and shook his hand. The marshal gestured for David to sit down on his right, where a place setting of gold-trimmed china was prepared. The major circled around behind his commander and sat down on his left. As soon as the major was
settled in, an older man wearing black trousers, a white jacket and white gloves entered the marshal's private dining room from a side door. He carried an etched silver tray with two bowls of soup, calmly placing each bowl in front of the two new patrons.

"How are you today?" asked David, his question quickly translated by the major.

"Today, comrade, I have my health and I have destiny in my palm," replied the marshal, holding out his open right palm to help illustrate. "Next week, I may not have my health but I will have finally conquered destiny once and for all."

David smiled politely as the major ran through his needless translation. David was annoyed at the major's poor translation, but kept his smile intact.

The conversation between David and the marshal continued through the four-course meal. The major was there only to translate, and he fully accepted his role. The two principals traded questions, with the marshal trying to learn more about how the American soldier thinks tactically and David asking questions about Timolenko's philosophy, afraid to appear too eager to learn about the coup plans.

Finally, as the old waiter brought in three stainless steel bowls of sherbet, David raised his crystal wine glass, the white liquid sloshing quietly against opposite sides. “To success tomorrow and the triumph of the Marxist state."

The major raised his glass and translated the toast. The three men drank, the commander-in-chief smiling broadly, revealing years of substandard dentistry.

"Ask Colonel Berkshire if he is curious about how we will take control tomorrow," the marshal
commanded.

The major looked distressed but went ahead with the translati
on. David shrugged his shoulders, not sure as to what level of response would serve his purposes best. If he appeared too eager then the marshal might back off, but if he had too little enthusiasm then he might miss the opportunity he had been working toward.

"There is a Politburo meeting scheduled for noon tomorrow," continued Timolenko, not waiting for the ex-patriot's response. The major continued to translate, feeling better that the marshal was only repeating what he revealed the day before. "General Secretary
Andropov takes the podium after the minutes of the last meeting are read. When he does, then it will all end for him."

The marshal spoke with hatred in his voice, his right fist clinching tightly in anger. The major continued to translate faithfully.

Timolenko took a bite of his dessert. It was his favorite, and he wasn't sure when he would enjoy another peacetime meal.

He laid down the spoon and, without warning, clapped his hands together above his plate and let his open palms float upward. At the same time he made a noise that roughly mimicked a bomb blast. "That is how it will happen, comrade. They will all die for their country, the only act of salvation they have left to give."

As the translation was given, the marshal repeated his gesture of an exploding bomb complete with sound effects. The major started to sweat slightly as he made no attempt to conceal his increasing concern at how much his leader was disclosing.

David ignored the translator, confident that the man carried no weight with his superior. “But how can we get a bomb into the Kremlin? It
must be very strongly protected,” the Mossad spy pondered.

Marshal Timolenko ate more sherbet as he listened
to the question in Russian. His eyes widened in response. "Perhaps that is the most brilliant aspect of this entire plan." He hesitated a moment because he was about to reveal something that not even the major knew. He realized that at this point, it was a secret he could share.

"About two months ago, the Great Kremlin Palace where the Politburo convenes had some repair wo
rk performed on it. Part of this work included replastering and repainting the central auditorium." Timolenko finished off the last of the sherbet in his bowl, allowing the major to translate. "The work was performed by a select group of Speznaz forces. Instead of plaster, that ceiling now has a one-centimeter layer of plastic explosive, just waiting for my command." Timolenko smiled broadly as he watched David's face react to the translation. "Then we go on television and proclaim ourselves the new government."

The marshal took a long sip of wine and returned the glass to the table. His mood was triumphant. He had envisioned the moment of victory a thousand times over the past year. Final vindication was within twenty-four hours, and each minute reduced the possibility of failure. He sat there motionless, as if waiting for a
question from his new friend. Suddenly a new thought entered his mind. "I am flying to Moscow at 0700 in the morning," he said excitedly. "Ask him if he would like to accompany me."

The
major was stunned. He dared to stare at his commander in disbelief as David sat silently, waiting for the mechanical translation. "But, comrade marshal, you can't take him with you. Everything is planned to the minute. He could only cause complications and we still can't be certain he is who he claims to be."

"Of course he is who he claims to be," replied Timolenko, his voice containing some anger
, yet still restrained. David was thankful for the marshal's strong personality, for it gave Timolenko the overconfidence which led to his complete belief that the real Thomas Berkshire was in front of him. "Do not try my patience any longer."

The major was silent for a few seconds, apparently bringing himself to accept his orders. He looked at the alien across the table. "The marshal would like to know if you would like to leave here tonight or spend the next few days as his guest," said the major.

David remained quiet for a moment, stunned by the subordinate's betrayal of his superior's orders. The Mossad spy wanted to expose the major right there, but knew that his only option was to play along. He realized that the major had phrased his question in such a way as to insure a negative response and it was going to work. “Well, I don’t want to leave here right now. I am honored to be the marshal’s guest. I will stay here as long as he would like.”

The major turned to Timolenko. "He says that he is honored by your invitation, b
ut he feels that he would only jeopardize your plans and therefore insists that he not accompany you."

Marshal Timolenko looked at his underling carefully, not sure if he believed the response. He quickly dismissed the thought that the major would lie to him. He stood and offered his hand to David. "Tell him that I am disappointed, but maybe you are both wiser than I today."

The major stood along with David. "He says that he is happy that you decided to stay on with him."

"I'm sorry, Robert," said Borskov, his voice containing genuine emotion. "I never should have let him do that. It was too risky." It was late Sunday night and the pair feared the worst. They had heard nothing from their Israeli compatriot.

"He knew what he was walking into," Austin
replied. "If we faced the same decision right now, we would all arrive at the same choices. Now we live with the consequences."

"Or die with the consequences." Borskov's statement was under his breath but still audible to the analyst.

"There's no point in speculation. When we find out then we can react." Austin leaned back in his bed. He adjusted the comforter to cover his shoulders. Across the room, Anatoly Borskov took off his clothes until he was left with just an undershirt and boxer shorts. He removed a small notebook from the breast pocket of his jacket, turned on the lamp by his bed and walked back to the door. He turned off the overhead bulb and went to bed.

"Do you trust the men in those planes?" asked Austin from his darkened side of the room.

"I didn't use KGB men. I got Air Force technicians from Marshal Sukoronov. Whether or not he can be trusted is another matter. What do you think?"

"Just as we have already discussed, if he was willing to show up then he is probably loyal.
I didn't get the sense that anyone in that meeting was lying. I wish I could say something definite.”

Borskov opened his notebook. He reviewed one page briefly. "I hate waiting," he said as he flipped through a few more pages. "What's your guess as to when it's going to happen?"

"You mean the coup?"

"Yes."

"It all depends on when they are ready to launch an invasion. Judging by the readiness reports and the satellite photos that I reviewed tonight, I would say that they can go tomorrow morning if they want. I'll go even further. Right now American analysts are looking at identical photographs and wondering exactly what's wrong. It is entirely possible that American war planners are meeting right now to discuss this situation. I wouldn't be surprised if U.S. forces were put on alert some time tomorrow. What all of this means, of course, is that since what I'm saying is just as obvious to Timolenko, he knows he must act soon or lose his surprise element. By 'soon’ I mean sometime within the next three days at most, preferably tomorrow or Tuesday. My guess is that they will act during the Politburo meeting tomorrow and invade either tomorrow night or Tuesday morning. But I have no idea how they will try to kill the premier."

"Very thorough, as usual, R
obert. I think you’re right,” Borskov replied. “I hope that Khuzhotzov's troops are up to the task."

“
What are the security measures tomorrow?”

"Khuzhotzov will have five thousand of his tr
oops in and around the Kremlin. They have hand-picked commanders and will be ready to use them if needed.” The colonel looked over another page in his notebook, his eyes straining to pick up the faint reflections of lamplight. "There are another thirty thousand troops and supporting armor ringing the city on full alert. Starting at 1100 hours, all air traffic near Moscow will be shadowed by MIG-23 fighters.

"Within the Kremlin, there will be three hundred soldiers and police officers guarding the Central Auditorium. Nikolai spent today going through the Great Kremlin Palace and could find nothing. So if they try something tomorrow, they will have to make some type of assault. The plan is that most of the troops will be hidden until needed."

"You aren't using any KGB men?"

Borskov looked across the room, only able to make out the silhouette of his trusted ally. He wasn't sure if the American was asking a question or making a statement. "Unfortunately, I trust only those men we have used so far."

"What about all these soldiers? Can we trust them? Can we even trust Marshal Khuzhotzov?"

"I wish I knew, Robert. But right behind the podium there is a trap door and a passageway leading back down here. Nikolai will be there, behind the
general secretary, ready to get him out in an instant."

"How do you think Premier
Andropov will handle this?"

"He is a tough man. He understands that this is the only way to force their hand. He will not panic." Without warning, the KGB officer got out of bed and walked over to Austin. He turned on the lamp by the analyst's bed.

"What is it?" asked Austin as he shielded his eyes from the penetrating light.

"I remembered
something," replied Borskov. He held up the fountain pen he had been using to keep notes and unscrewed it into two sections. He struck the open end of its stainless steel body against his palm several times and then pulled the casing away to reveal two capsules. The American watched quietly as the two cylindrical objects came to rest in the colonel's palm. He knew instantly what the objects were. "I am giving you this capsule, Robert," continued Borskov, "in case we fail at our endeavor. I can tell from your face that you know it is cyanide."

Borskov picked up one capsule, squeezing it gently between his right thumb and index finger. He placed it on the coffee table where Austin had put his wallet and money for the evening and then used the same two appendages to put his pen back together – only this time with one capsule instea
d of two. He spoke as he walked back to bed, his back turned to the analyst. "It would be very unpleasant for us if we fell into the wrong hands right now. In addition, you have a very patriotic reason to take the easy way out if it becomes necessary. You would no doubt be used to attack your own country. But have no doubts, if either one of us is captured by these rebels, we will be dead men."

He started to place the pen on his bedside night table but stopped and stared at it for
several seconds. His back was still turned to the analyst. "In my entire career in this business," said Borskov, his voice much softer than before, "I don't think I've ever touched a cyanide capsule before. I can't help but think it's the coward's way out." He turned off the light and worked his large frame into the bed.