The Kremlin Letter (18 page)

They stopped off at half a dozen bars and restaurants before Rone saw a girl who vaguely resembled the one Sonia had talked to.

“Hey, baby, that's Jamaican stuff if you ask me,” said Fred, almost staring in the girl's face.

“Forget national origins, old fellow. Do you have anything like that in stock?”

“Daddy, what Fred don't have in his pocket, he's sure bound to find in his wallet. When do you need her?”

“Yesterday.”

“Cool, man, cool.”

The following Monday, Rone and Janis were back at their 57th Street vigil. Apparently the lunchroom had been repaired. No one came out. At noon Janis told Rone he would take the afternoon shift himself. Rone started back for the Tillinger mansion. He was just about to hail a cab when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“You naughty boy.”

Rone turned and faced the art school's registrar.

“You should be ashamed of yourself. It is your responsibility to share your gift with the world.”

“I was thinking of coming, but I just couldn't find the time. Maybe I'll start next week.”

“Oh, no you don't. You'll have to wait until next fall. It serves you right, too.”

“Why can't I start?”

“We've reached this term's quota. We have our full fifteen. Our staff can't accommodate any more. However, if you're
sure
you're coming next week, if you positively
promise
, then I might make an exception to our rules.”

“When did you get the new students?”

“That's none of your business. But I got them all right.”

Rone reached into his pocket and handed the registrar fifty dollars. “Here's my deposit. I'll be there Monday. Now tell me about the new students.”

The registrar was slightly stunned. “Why in the world should I?”

“Well, I told several friends of mine about it. I just wanted to know if they were the ones who registered.”

“Oh, heavens no! These four people just flew into the country this morning. They are foreign artists.”

“Foreign?”

“They're scholarship students from the Jamaican Art Lovers League.”

Rone had expected to spend Tuesday with Clocker Dan and the Puppet Maker, but early that morning his orders were changed. He, the Priest and the Warlock took a taxi downtown to Greenwich Village. They joined Janis at a corner table in a Bleecker Street coffeehouse.

Janis motioned to a table across the room. There sat Sonia with a stunning Negro girl. The girl was talking with her eyes down. Sonia listened without expression. The girl bit her lip and continued talking. Sonia said a few words every now and then.

It looked to Rone as if Sonia was trying to console her weeping friend, but didn't know how. The conversation continued this way for quite some time. Then Sonia took the offensive. She leaned over the table and tried to look into the girl's face, but the girl turned away. Sonia seemed troubled and hesitant. She looked at her watch. She paused, leaned forward again and said something that made the girl lift up her head and smile. Sonia smiled back, rose and left the coffeehouse.

After she was out of sight the girl paid the check and started to walk out. When she passed Rone's table she stopped and looked at Janis.

“It's set for Thursday at five,” she told him.

“Do you think it will come off all right?” asked Janis.

The girl flashed a captivating grin. “Honey, when you pay for the best you get the best.”

Potkin's agents had located one hundred and eight Charles Rones in forty-two states. None proved to be the right man. Now Potkin had his first valid lead. A Czech refugee by the name of Buka had supplied the information.

Buka specialized in extorting money from American families with relatives behind the Iron Curtain. To do this he needed the cooperation of Communist officials who would provide false verification that if money was paid relatives would be permitted to come to the United States. A great many dollars crossed the ocean, but very few relatives did. Over the years Buka had become friendly with both Iron Curtain and Western officials interested in extra income. He had expanded and diversified.

Potkin had bought information from him in the past and had always found it worth the price. Still, he did not trust Buka. When the Czech first said he had information concerning Charles Rone, Potkin was quite perturbed. How could Buka even know the Russians were interested in Rone? Then he remembered that often in the past Buka knew what he was not supposed to. Potkin felt him out cautiously. He demanded evidence, and the source of the evidence.

For five hundred dollars Buka was willing to sell Potkin a copy of Charles Rone's birth certificate. This, of course, was worthless, since Potkin would have no way of knowing if it was the man he wanted or not. Days passed. Then Buka offered to sell a copy of Charles Rone's Navy physical fitness report. When Potkin demanded the original report, Buka upped the price to fifteen thousand. They settled for twelve. Potkin's staff determined that the report was authentic. Now he had a physical description of his man. In short order, and for more money, Buka supplied originals of Rone's Navy driving test (with the name of the test administrator cut out), his Navy IQ test (administrator's name cut out), and his request for transfer into Naval Intelligence. All the documents were valid.

Potkin was convinced that Buka had access to the Rone file. Then Buka made his offer: For two hundred and fifty thousand dollars he would turn over to Potkin the entire Rone file. Russian intelligence traditionally disliked paying money for information, and Potkin liked it less than anyone. He negotiated. The mutually agreed figure was one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. Potkin contacted Kosnov for permission. It was granted, with one stipulation: He must find out where Buka got the information. To do this Buka would have to be taken.

At four o'clock Potkin went to the telephone booth at 71st Street and Ninth Avenue. At four-ten the phone rang. He was instructed to go to a phone booth at 35th and Third, where he would be called with further instructions. Although Potkin was to come alone, he was keeping in contact with his agents by radio.

By six o'clock Potkin had followed phone booths into the Bronx. His final call instructed him to enter Yankee Stadium through Gate 5. Buka would be waiting for him on the field. As Potkin headed for the rendezvous he radioed his men to take positions around the stadium and wait until he had finished his business with Buka. Then they would close in.

The sun was down as Potkin walked through the open gate and into the passageway. He walked out onto the field and stopped. Buka was standing beside a helicopter. Potkin made a move to go, but was hit from behind.

When he regained consciousness he found himself tied in a wheelchair in the center of a large room. The walls, ceiling and floor were painted white. The room blazed with fluorescent lights. Directly in front of him was a table. Behind it sat two men with white hoods over their heads.

“Comrade Potkin,” said one of the two men behind the desk, “you have something we want and I believe we have something you want.”

Potkin remained silent.

“To be brief, we were thinking of going to Moscow next week. And we wondered if you would let us use your apartment. We would pay you rent, of course.”

Potkin said nothing. He looked at nothing. He was neither tense nor relaxed. He was simply a man waiting, an old hand at games like this. He was unafraid.

“Now for the rental of this apartment of yours. We could, of course, give you cash. Shall we say one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars?”

The valise Potkin had brought to Buka was spilled out on the floor. Wads of ten-, twenty- and fifty-dollar bills fell in front of him. Potkin, unimpressed, shook his head.

“You're a very difficult man to please, Comrade Potkin. We need you, but you don't seem to need us. Let me see if we can find anything else that might interest you.”

The man sat down and conferred with his companion. Then he rose again.

“We do have three items that might be more appealing. If you'll just watch the television screens over your head.”

With that the lights in the room lowered and two of the screens lit up with the face of Potkin's wife.

“Don't worry, dear—please, please don't worry. They haven't harmed, me at all. They told me you would be watching. I hope you are. They're treating me very well. You must do what you think best. I don't know where the girls are. They've promised that they are all right. But even they will understand if you have to make a difficult decision.”

Potkin's eyes flashed for a moment, then regained their previous vacant stare. His body gave a slight heave, but he was in control of himself again. The two screens blacked out and then lit up again. This time it was. Potkin's youngest daughter.

“Daddy? Daddy? Can you hear me? Daddy, I'm frightened.”

The picture shut off and the lights in the room went up.

“Comrade Potkin, we want that apartment. We want it so badly that we will turn your wife and daughters inside out to get it. What is your answer?”

Potkin said nothing.

The lights dimmed and pictures appeared on all six screens. Sonia was seated in an apartment. A Negro girl stood on the other side of the room. The girl walked across and sat next to Sonia. She tried to take her hand. Sonia shied away and stood up.

“Please, not again. I've got to get home,” said Sonia.

“What's the matter, honey, don't you love me no more?” asked the girl.

“I like you, but I've got to get home. You don't know how my father is.”

“Well, at least let me kiss ya goodbye?” The girl gently reached out and touched Sonia's cheek. Sonia's eyes closed. The girl moved against her and began kissing her lightly. Her lips and tongue slid quickly around Sonia's face. Potkin's daughter began to respond. Sonia clutched the girl and kissed her passionately. The girl lay down beside her. They embraced. Their bodies pressed together. The girl began unbuttoning Sonia's blouse. Sonia unzipped her skirt and slid it off. She pulled up her slip and pushed down her panties.

“It is a fake!” cried Potkin. “I know how these movies are made. You can duplicate anything. It isn't even my daughter in the first place.”

The men came from around the desk and wheeled Potkin through the door and into the large, darkened ballroom. Television cameras with hooded operators encircled the observation apartment erected in the middle of the area. The room behind the one-way plastic was lit up like a jewel. Sonia was completely naked except for the slip gathered up at her waist. She tore at the Negro girl's clothes. She began biting the girl's lips and twisting her hand in her hair. Slowly she slid down the body, kissing the dark flesh as she moved.

“Sonia, stop! Stop!” shouted Potkin. “You don't know what they're doing to you!”

“She can't hear you,” said Ward. “You can shout all day and she can't hear you, but she can still be saved if you agree. If not, we'll turn her into the most perverted human being our minds can conceive. And after we've finished with her we'll start on your other daughter—and then your wife.”

Potkin slumped in his chair. “Even if I gave it to you it would be no good. Kosnov will know.”

“What will he know?”

“Too many things. It will never work.”

“It will work perfectly,” contradicted Ward. “You'll have the complete Rone file. We
want
Kosnov to have it.”

“And what about my family?”

“They will be kept with our men in this country until either we get back or are caught. No harm will come to them.”

Potkin was broken. “I will do whatever you say.” He was wheeled back into the other, room.

Ward slid back a panel, walked into the plastic room, and roughly pulled the two women apart. “That's enough for now girls,” he said.

Rone awoke when the doorknob turned. He saw B.A. step into the room and close the door quietly behind her. She stood in the darkness, not moving. Finally she stepped lightly across to the bed. She saw that Rone was looking up at her.

“He told me they did such things, but I never believed him,” she said nervously.

“You do what has to be done,” he answered softly.

“Don't talk. Don't say anything. Please.”

She sat on the end of the bed a long time, looking out into darkness. Then she stood.

Rone heard the gentle rustle of cloth. She slid under the covers and lay on her back as far from him as possible. Time passed slowly.

“This will be my first time,” she finally said, moving up against him.

19

Alert

The pace increased. The schedules were longer, the training more intense. Rone's Georgian accent neared perfection. He mastered the songs and dances of the area. His cover story was complete. Relatives, birthdays, deaths, anniversaries were second nature to him now. More important, he had become Buley's Georgian farmer. Rone could now distinguish the variation of soils, fertilizers, and irrigation as well as their effects on the produce of the region. He could even tell if grapes had been grown in the valleys or on the mountainsides. His muscles bulged just where Buley wanted them to.

The tactical briefings had reached thirty-five in number and covered every conceivable facet of Soviet politics and intelligence. The last five of the briefings had been detailed studies on life in Moscow, pinpointing everything from subway routes to the cost of renting a boat in Gorki Park. Special attention was given to identification papers from passports down to burial certificates.

B.A. had come to Rone's room almost every night throughout this period. She would always wait until she thought he was asleep before quietly opening the door, undressing and slipping into bed beside him. She would never let him talk, nor would she, for that matter, say more than a hasty good night. She would avoid his glance during the working day, but she would be beside him at night. She had come to him a child; in the dark, at least, she was fast becoming a woman.