Yet, now Aleksandr Dubroff looked for movement in the shadows. He glanced around to see if someone from the FSB would make an example of him.
Yes, the train. 250 kilometers. That’s when. It’s such a good time to instruct rookies, he thought. No, Moskovia. So many more people to witness my capture. Maybe, he thought.
The bus door opened and Dubroff climbed the stairs. Then again, giving himself credit, maybe not.
Chapter 43
Aleksandr Dubroff could feel it. He blamed his own stupidity. Too much time on that damned computer.
He didn’t know where they were, but he was certain they were watching. Maybe it wasn’t the man two rows behind him on the bus, or the attendant who stared far too long at his window as they rolled away. Maybe it was someone he hadn’t noticed yet. The farmer in overalls in the aisle opposite him. He looked at the man’s fingers. Rough and dirty? No. He strained to glance over his shoulder. Then what about the woman another row back? She seemed to be reading, but she hadn’t turned a page yet.
Dubroff spent the next two hours sneaking looks and evaluating everyone. He knew he’d be doing the same thing on the train at Tver, assuming he made it that far.
There’s an expression that goes to the very heart of the paranoid: Sometimes they really are following you.
A car pulled up onto the dirt driveway in front of the old Russian’s dacha. Two men in poorly fitting suits stepped out. The driver walked around to the passenger side and motioned to the back of the house. The second man went where he was told.
The driver walked to the front door. His orders were to knock solidly and wait. If, after an appropriate amount of time, the door didn’t open, he was authorized to break in. His supervisors told him that his subject was old. He’d also been warned: “He’s a former colonel in the KGB. The man is resourceful.” He wasn’t informed about his status in the Politburo. No one cared anymore.
When the second knock went unanswered, he unholstered his revolver and put all his might against the wooden door. It gave way, probably needing only half the effort.
“This is the FSB! Show yourself!” There was a noise at the rear of the house. Another door opening. The Russian agent leveled his gun in the direction of the sound.
“In!” called Number Two from the back. Damn. He was supposed to stay and wait! Doesn’t anyone pay attention to training anymore?
The agent worked his way around the first floor. There were old pictures of a beautiful young woman, books on horticulture, an upright piano. He touched a few keys. Instead of recognizable notes, the piano produced discordant tones and thuds. He continued his search. A collection of shot glasses. Dog-eared books of Russian poetry. A box of letters in a woman’s hand. He looked at the postmarks. Nothing newer than the mid-1980s.
The agents converged at the steps leading upstairs. A worn carpet covered the scuffed brown hardwood floors, long in need of a good sanding and stain. The head agent nodded for Number Two to accompany him.
Wony hit the agent. What did they say? Former colonel in the KGB. They weren’t just looking for an old man, they were here to take in a dangerous man.
The agent-in-charge had a printout of the websites Dubroff had logged onto, the length of time he spent on each, and the contents of the webpages. The psych ops shrink, assigned to evaluate Dubroff’s motivation, concluded:
“The behavior of the subject is consistent with one who is absorbed in self-evaluation or end-of-life reflection. The tools of the technology allow him to search for references to his own career; to create meaning for his life’s work, for his existence on the face of the earth. Finding little, yet seeing accounts of colleagues, many of whom he views as lesser, fosters a growing anger. First it is directed at them — people who have achieved fame, perhaps wealth, by violating their allegiance to country. Worse still is when they exploit their achievements at the expense of the subject. But soon this anger transfers to the State. Not only the former Soviet Union, but today’s State. It is the recommendation of this department that the subject be questioned, that his computer be confiscated, that his actions cease.
“While he poses no immediate security risk, his archival knowledge could be embarrassing.”
The report was initialed and dispatched to a bureau supervisor who bucked it up. The name Dubroff, though not instantly recognizable to everyone in the FSB hierarchy, was familiar to a senior control, Yuri Ranchenkov. He was the man who ultimately decided to round up Dubroff.
Ranchenkov recalled a pain-in-the-ass teacher many years ago at the famed Andropov Institute. He made everyone who entered wish they’d never enrolled and turned anyone who graduated into a professional. His name was Dubroff, too. But he still couldn’t be alive?
If he was the same man, he held important secrets. Between his KGB work and his years at the Politburo, he was a walking encyclopedia of every Cold War trick in the book. The shrink’s summation was vastly understated. He called for an assistant to pull all the records on “an Aleksandr Dubroff, retired, Politburo, 1984 or 85. Mid-’80s at least. Ex-KGB field officer and teacher at Andropov.” Then he added for good measure, “Confirm if he is deceased; if so, where he is buried. If he is alive, tell me where he lives!”
They found the information. Dubroff, Aleksandr, was alive. Ranchenkov sent investigators to his home without complaint from subordinates. He had an old-guard sensibility, left over from the Communist regime. He demanded obedience and loyalty. Ranchenkov supervised the secret branch of the DII — the Department of Internal Investigations — the newest version of the Secret Police. In a strange turn of events, he was tracking down his mentor.
After listening for any sound of life in the bedroom and hearing none, the lead FSB agent swung open the door with a simple nudge. Like every other room they checked, it had the musty smell of an old house. This did not make Sergei Ryabov any less cautious. The dossier on Dubroff was impressive. He had been a master spy. That meant he was proficient with a gun.
While both men were relieved the entire house was clear, Dubroff’s absence presented another problem. Where was he?
“He picks mushrooms. He’s probably out in the forest,” said Number Two.
Ryabov had more experience, but only a little. Still, he bullied his partner as if he had years of experience. “And if he is not, then we have wasted hours.”
His Number Two reluctantly nodded.
“Look in his drawers. I’ll check his closets.”
“What am I looking for?”
“What’s there and what’s missing!” exclaimed Ryabov.
The chief officer surveyed Dubroff’s closet. He ran an elimination list. Suitcase. Not here. He looked under the bed, then in the guest room, in the hall closets, and finally in a quarter basement that housed the boiler and hot-water heater. There, he found four bulky, dusty suitcases, stacked one on top of another. The top one had a thick layer of dust on it, but curiously, a rectangle within that was dust free. There had been a fifth, smaller suitcase. He glided his finger across the clean portion of the top suitcase and looked at it. Clean. Dubroff left recently!