The Kremlin Letter (10 page)

It's this damnable case, he told himself, turning back to the first file, to the memorandum delivered by courier less than eight weeks before. Everything about this project has been trouble, he thought.

He reread the message initiating Series Five. At the time the request had simply asked for the names and locations of CIA personnel in the United States who had recently been reassigned. Potkin had pointed out to the courier that a surveillance team recorded the comings and goings of agents at the CIA central headquarters in Washington. He felt this was a good indication of who might be briefed for new missions. Since his observers knew the regular staff, any new visitors might be considered as potential special operatives. Potkin had confided that he he did have sources within the headquarters itself, but he felt it too risky to use them for what appeared to be standard cataloguing. The next day Moscow had concurred, and he had begun assembling the information for transmission.

Potkin turned through his reports. Everything had gone smoothly until mid-September, until the first rumors of Khrushchev's rift with the Central Committee had begun filtering back. A message arrived saying that his system was too inaccurate; more specific information was needed. Potkin's reports covered only thirty percent of CIA agent movement. Ninety percent was now needed. Never in the past had such a demand been made. The most important evaluations had never requested more than a sixty-percent mark. Potkin had contacted Moscow directly for verification.

“We are no longer interested in percentages,” he was told. “We must know the location and assignment of every CIA agent who has set foot in the United States over the last four months. The other divisions will worry about the agents in their areas. You must cover the United States. Percentages are no longer applicable. We must anticipate
who
they may send into Russia to replace Polakov.”

Potkin had protested. There was no way of getting such complete information without seriously jeopardizing his contacts within the organization. He had spent years developing them. Even if they were successful he doubted whether they could obtain
total
information.

“Jeopardize them,” he was ordered. “Do whatever is necessary to get it.”

Potkin looked up from his records. The driver was honking the horn. Hundreds of young girls in tight orange gymnasium uniforms were forming in columns along the road. He thought of his daughters. If he were living in Moscow they would be marching today. Gymnastics would be good for them. They led too sedentary a life in New York.

He read the notes of September 20. Another courier had arrived demanding the same type of information on the Army's CIC that he was compiling on CIA. Once again Potkin contacted Moscow directly in protest. He pointed out that three bars and restaurants adjacent to CIC headquarters and training center at Fort Holabird, outside of Baltimore, were operated by his network. They knew most of the soldiers who had received training there over the last five years, but they did not have information concerning their assignments.

“Why not?” he was asked.

“Be-be-cause no one has ev-ever requested it,” he remembered answering in anger.

“We are now,” he was told.

Potkin had pointed out that he “did not have enough manpower to cover both CIA and CIC in such detail. Where were his men? Working on other cases. “Take them off,” he was ordered.

Potkin had pleaded he had only two reliable agents within Fort Holabird itself. One was a double agent, a captain in the review section. The other was an army private who was being trained as a CIC agent. Outside of the risk involved, Potkin had argued, their chances of even getting near the restricted information required were almost nonexistent.

“Use them,” he was ordered.

As improbable as it had appeared at the beginning, Potkin had obtained the information.

What bothered him was the ease with which he got it. Everything seemed to fall into place too easily. Secret files seemed too available. Security seemed too lax.

He set his copies of the CIC and CIA reports to the side.

“Too easy,” he repeated to himself. “Much too easy.”

Not that his men had just walked in and taken what they wanted. They hadn't. They took great risks entering areas where they did not work. They could have been caught at any moment. They hadn't been. Perhaps they had been lucky? Perhaps they were more skilled than Potkin had realized? Perhaps something else was involved? Potkin had relayed his material to Moscow. Kosnov had been pleased.

Two days later another emissary had arrived. He too congratulated Potkin and then informed him that the FBI end of Series Five had been transferred to his department. Potkin had blanched. He had never dealt with the FBI. That was Rudman's operation.

“The colonel is not pleased with Rudman's progress. Everything is turned over to you,” he was told.

Potkin read the message he had sent to Kosnov warning that with such short notice and so little progress up to date he might have to buy the FBI information from other countries.

“Do what you have to do,” the reply had come.

He had explained that it would cost a great deal of money. A great deal of money in American currency. “Do what you have to do.”

Potkin pulled out the receipts and thumbed through them. A total of $432,850 had been spread among eleven Iron Curtain and Middle Eastern countries before he had secured a list of language-aptitude scores for FBI agents working in the United States. From this he had been able to deduce those who might be capable of undertaking a Russian mission. The only thing was, he had had no way to evaluate the accuracy of his information—any of it. The material had been sent to Moscow with the receipts. Kosnov had also been dubious, but had expressed his gratitude for something to work from. He had relaxed. The worst was over. Four weeks had passed since Series Five had been initiated.

Potkin turned to the most infuriating memorandum of them all. It conveyed Kosnov's congratulations on the FBI information and informed Potkin that the same type of information was now being requested on ONI, OAI, congressional investigating committees, the attorney general's investigating staff, union-investigating groups, industrial investigators, newspapermen, radio and television men—in short, anybody capable of carrying out a mission in Russia.

Potkin flushed as he reread it. He patted the perspiration from his face. He turned to the memos on the conversation with Kosnov. He had claimed it would be absolutely impossible. He didn't have the men, money or contacts to attempt such a project under expeditious conditions. He would have the men and money, he had been told. Even so, he had protested, the project was inconceivable. He had suggested a compromise. Use the language-aptitude approach that had finally proved acceptable in the FBI survey. A compromise had been reached. Complete investigations were to be run on Navy and Air Force intelligence personnel. The language survey could be used on the remaining groups. The currency had arrived. Agents Potkin never knew existed, many of them covert for ten or fifteen years, had appeared.

Now, $1,800,000 later, his final reports were in Kosnov's hands. There had been no immediate response. No pleasure or displeasure. No congratulations. He had waited three days. Then, yesterday, he had been ordered to Moscow.

Colonel Kosnov's limousine drove slowly through the side streets. Potkin put the files back into the briefcase with the exception of the ONI and OAI records. He assumed these would be their main concern at the meeting. He tried to read them but his concentration was elsewhere.

Why the investigation in the first place? he asked himself. The information had covered only overt operatives. What about the undercover agents that nobody knew about? Kosnov was too old an intelligence hand to assume he had canvassed the entire field. What had suddenly become important enough about Polakov's successor to initiate such expense and danger for something that was incomplete? What did Series Five have to do with the Bresnavitch-Kosnov feud? What did Bresnavitch mean by “this letter business”? What would happen at that damned meeting?

It is bad coming back to Russia on short notice, Potkin told himself, putting the last two reports back into the briefcase. He turned and watched the crowds walking happily toward Red Square. His daughters had always loved the parades. He must bring them back soon to see one.

The crowds grew larger. Workers, athletes, soldiers, women and children, many dressed in the regional costumes of the Ukraine, Latvia, Georgia and a dozen other Soviet domains swarmed along the sidewalks and curbs. The sound of band music could now be heard. They were less than five minutes from Third Department headquarters. Potkin reached into his pocket and took out the typewritten list his wife had given him:

IMPORTANT

The car came to a sudden stop, Potkin looked up. The street was jammed with people heading to the parade. Two
militsioneryi
stood in front of the limousine. The driver jumped out and talked with them. He returned to the car and opened the back door.

“I'm sorry, comrade, but the street is closed,” he explained. “I'm afraid you'll have to walk from here.”

“That-tha-that's all right,” Potkin replied, unperturbed. He gathered up his briefcase and the package for Bresnavitch. The driver helped him out.

“I'm afraid you'll be late,” the driver told him apologetically.

Potkin shrugged. He took a look at the jubilant crowd, lowered his head and began walking.

Colonel Kosnov also ignored the parade. He stood in the operations room, his back to the other officers, and looked out the window. Below him lay Red Square. The October winds already warned of another long, arduous Russian winter, but tens of thousands of marching Muscovites acted as if spring had just arrived. Kosnov did not need to look at them. He had seen it all before. It was always the same no matter what the occasion. The tight columns of marching soldiers, the mobile equipment, the rockets, the endless legions of workers and the signs they carried—Long Live the Glorious Communist Party Founded by Lenin, Long Live the Soviet People, Builders of Communism. It was always the same.

Today, however, one thing was different. On top of the Lenin Mausoleum stood a single line of men: Khrushchev was no longer among them. Kosnov stared at them and at the cosmonauts in whose honor the parade was being held: Colonel Komarov, Dr. Yegorov and the scientist Feoktistov. The trio had orbited the earth in one rocket. A major triumph on any other day. Today the exploit was secondary. The eyes of the world were on those who stood beside them: Leonid I. Brezhnev, the new first secretary of the Communist Party, and Aleksei N. Kosygin, the new premier of the USSR.

His private telephone rang. He crossed the room and answered it. Communications Security informed him of the conversation between Potkin and Bresnavitch. He nodded and hung up. He looked at his staff seated around the table. Lieutenant Grodin sat to his left. He was Bresnavitch's son-in-law. Potkin and he would go into the Bresnavitch camp. They knew about the letter. Grodin had undoubtedly told his father-in-law. Captain Meyeroff and Captain Mirsk sat opposite each other. They must be counted with Kosygin: He doubted how much they knew about it. The same was true for Colonel Targen and Lieutenant Bulov. They were Brezhnev's contingent. Captain Petrovsky leaned toward Suslov. Major Maslin still sided with Khrushchev, but he would get over that.

The conference phone rang. Lieutenant Grodin picked it up.

“Captain Potkin is on his way up,” he told the others.

“I regret being late.”

Potkin stood at the door. He walked to the conference table, took his appointed seat, lifted his briefcase in front of him, folded his hands over it, and stared straight ahead. A thin ring of perspiration rose on his brow.

“Captain Potkin,” Kosnov began.

Potkin sat tensely straight. His emotionless face turned mechanically toward the colonel.

“Let me commend you and your department on an extraordinary accomplishment. We had asked for the impossible and you have come quite close to fulfilling that request.”

Potkin stiffened. What does he mean by quite close? he asked himself.

“If the other international offices were as efficient as yours we would indeed have a magnificent organization.”

Potkin withdrew his hands from the briefcase. He smiled rigidly. He was safe.

Kosnov continued. “We have studied your reports with great interest. Understandably, questions have arisen. That is why we asked you here.”

Potkin nodded.

“Let us start with the CIA. Your report shows that only ten new assignments were given over the last six weeks, and some of them, according to you, appear relevant. How do you arrive at this conclusion?”