The CIA agent walked boldly through the door and announced, in Russian, that he was a KGB officer and wanted to see Dimitri’s papers. A very brash move in the heart of Moscow.
Everyone was shocked into silence, including Dimitri, who looked at the American in wide-eyed disbelief — the exact effect the CIA agent wanted to convey.
Two patrons, an old man and a young woman, left a couple of rubles on their tables and went out the front door with their coats not fully buttoned. The handful of other early morning customers hunkered down, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible in the confines of the small restaurant.
The American ordered Dimitri to the kitchen, where the agent told the small Russian woman and her young helper to leave them alone for five minutes. The two women were more than relieved to disappear from the compact room and the dreaded KGB officer.
“Your report. Quickly,” Wickham said, speaking in English.
“Zhilinkhov plans … they plan to launch nuclear missiles on … at the United States!” Dimitri struggled to be articulate.
“WHAT?” The CIA operative blinked twice, grabbed Dimitri by the shoulders, and stared intently into his face. The grip was like a vise, sending an excruciating pain through Dimitri’s upper body.
“Yes. I heard the general secretary talk at length last night with three Politburo members and a former member of the Politburo—”
“When?” the agent asked, stunned.
“Just before he left on—”
“No!” the tall agent said angrily. “When is he planning to initiate the preemptive strike?”
“I’m not sure of the exact time,” Dimitri responded, talking rapidly. “He said very soon.”
“Slow down,” the American said, lowering his voice to where it was almost inaudible. “Exactly what was said?”
“They have planned for the Americans to be off guard … something about an alert being over.”
Dimitri was trying to rush, searching for the best way to explain something unbelievable.
“Go on,” Wickham ordered.
“They talked about survival statistics. I couldn’t hear all of it — the conversation.”
“What exactly did you hear, regarding the missile strike?” The CIA agent was adamant. He also found the disclosure incredulous. Would his superiors think he had lost his faculties?
“He — Secretary Zhilinkhov — used the term ‘first strike’ more than once. He said when the military withdraws, when the alert is over … then the strike will happen.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. They — the six of them, including the defense minister — talked about dominating the world and … acceptable casualties.”
“Then what?”
“They drank a toast … and celebrated,” Dimitri said, more sure of himself.
“Do you recall any other pertinent information?” The agent was insistent.
“No,” Dimitri replied, trying to remember the details of the secret plan. His mind still couldn’t accept the horrible fact.
“Okay, now we’ve—”
Wickham was cut off abruptly when Dimitri remembered an important point. It would have been easier if he had written everything down, but one of his first lessons at the CIA was to never leave a record of anything, ever.
“They talked about a delay or reaction time they needed to test. How long it would take the Americans to react to a missile launch from the Soviet Union. The general secretary said if the Russians have a sixteen-minute period of time before the United States reacts, then they can successfully destroy America.”
“Anything else?” the agent asked, knowing they needed to leave the restaurant.
“Only that they discussed how they would go about occupying America and Europe… and having all the oil they needed.”
Dimitri paused, trying to collect his thoughts.
“Only the six of them know of the plan … plus the chief of the general staff. They intend to sink an American ship, escalate … I believe they said defense conditions to stage two, then withdraw. When the Americans withdraw, Zhilinkhov is going to launch all the Soviet missiles.”
Dimitri waited as the agent glanced through the thin curtain stretched across the door to the kitchen. “Go on.”
“They definitely said ‘first strike’ … on America. I know that for sure,” Dimitri said, sounding exhausted.
“Alright, Dimitri, can you continue in your capacity, or do you want out?”
Wickham could see that Dimitri, the agency’s only Kremlin in-house operative, was on the threshold of breaking. That was the last thing they could afford to have happen to him inside the Russian headquarters. He had done a great job, under constant tension, but this astonishing revelation had fractured his mettle.
“I want out,” Dimitri said in a resigned whisper. “I can’t stay here … knowing what they are going to—”
“This will be tough, understand?” Wickham didn’t have much time for explanations.
“Yes.”
Dimitri thought about Svetlana, his mouth dry, as he tried to grasp the enormity of the task ahead.
“Tell them your mother is worse. Explain that you have to leave now to see her one last time.”
“Yes, sir,” Dimitri responded, openly fidgeting in the small room.
“You must be bold, Dimitri. You understand? You’ve got to keep it together. You must give us a little time to organize your trip out, okay?”
“Yes, sir. I can do it.”
Dimitri saw a flash of Svetlana and the New York City skyline — incongruous under the circumstances — his mind trying to deal with too many changes too quickly.
“Take the train to Yemetsk, see the old woman, and wait to hear from us. We’ll be in touch soon.”
“I will leave this afternoon.”
Dimitri could feel relief surging through him, his fears quelled by the need for clear thinking.
“Make it appear normal. Don’t take anything out of the ordinary. Understand?”
“Yes … but,” Dimitri paused, trying to decide how to approach the subject of Svetlana.
“But what? We don’t have much time.”
The agent nervously looked at the front entrance.
“What about my girl? Svetlana Grishinakov. We plan to marry when my commitment is—”
“Impossible!”
Silence filled the small room before Wickham, in a pleasant voice, spoke again.
“Look, we will be lucky to get you out alive, under the circumstances.” The American gently squeezed Dimitri’s shoulders. “I’m sorry. It’s just too risky. You must understand?”
Dimitri nodded, frightened and dejected. “I understand.”
“We’ve got to get out of here. You walk in front of me to the front door.”
The Central Intelligence expert was pressing his luck. Changing back to fluent Russian, the covert operative gave Dimitri an order.
“You report back to work immediately! You will be contacted soon. Your papers are not in compliance.”
The ruse might have convinced everyone except the beefy, bald-headed man sitting alone in the corner. He didn’t even glance up as the two men passed his table.
“Yes, comrade,” Dimitri replied in a weak voice.
Turning to the two women, the American agent bellowed in Russian. “Your kitchen is a disgrace. Have it cleaned before I send the inspector.”
The women trembled but didn’t utter a sound as they huddled in a corner.
Dimitri walked into the street, trying to sort out his trip to Yemetsk and what he would tell Svetlana. He had to find a way to get her out of Russia. Dimitri knew if he could arrange for his beautiful Svetlana to go to Yemetsk with him, or meet him there, it might work. First, he must tell her the truth.
Dimitri looked over his still-aching shoulder as he crossed the street and saw the CIA agent disappear down a side street next to the restaurant.