Out of the corner of his eye, where his KGB bodyguard stood, he was startled to see the black shiny shoes of his assistant. He turned his head sideways and saw the two men talking. He looked forward again, anger bringing a flush to his forehead. It was an easily recognisable trait, one that warned those who were confronted by him that they were in for a rough ride.
His rule was simple. He was always available, except when he was at prayer. That rule was sacrosanct and had never been broken.
He felt his assistant slide onto the bench next to him.
'Why are you here?' he asked icily without looking up.
'To fetch you, sir,' came the nervous reply.
'You know the rule, don't you?'
'Rule, sir?'
'That I'm not to be disturbed when I come to pray.'
'Yes sir.'
'Then what's so important that it can't wait?'
'The Director would like to see you immediately.'
'You told him I was here?'
He heard the man gasp. 'Yes sir,' he replied when he had caught his breath.
'That was a mistake.'
The assistant knew he would soon be transferred. 'It is the Director. His orders,' he went on, grabbing at straws.
'Nothing is that important that it couldn't have waited for another twenty minutes.'
'Sorry, sir.' The assistant gave in; Rostov was not known for changing his mind.
'Wait for me. Outside.'
'Sir.'
The assistant withdrew and Rostov went back to his prayer. But the moment was gone, he could only think of what was so important that he was being recalled to Dzerzhinsky Square immediately.
The Director was impatient. They should have found Rostov by now. He leant down and switched on the intercom, changed his mind and switched it off.
Outside, in her office, his secretary shook her head at his impatience. He had already called and asked where his Deputy Director was five times in as many minutes.
The Director returned to the window and looked down on Dzerzhinsky Square, at the people scurrying round, rushing to the shops in their short lunch breaks. Who'd be a member of the human race? Who'd be common man? Not Feliks Dzerzhinsky, the Polish revolutionary who had founded the KGB, or the Cheka, as it had been. His gloomy, unwashed statue had stood in the centre of the Square, right there in the front of KGB Headquarters and had been pulled down unceremoniously by the citizens of Moscow in 1991. What would old Feliks have thought of it all now, or his discredited mentor, Stalin?
He thought of the report on his desk. It was a mess. The Americans were still not to be trusted. He'd hated the new openness, the desperate urge to forget the Cold War and pretend it had never been. While the Soviets sued for peace and support out of the economic shambles they had got themselves into, the Americans had insisted on putting East Germany under NATO, had tried to build bases all over the Middle East after the Iraq Gulf crisis. No, they were still the old enemy, still not be trusted.
He saw the Zil pull up at the pavement and Rostov get out.
'Bloody christian,' he thought. You never could completely trust a man with two masters. At least you could see proof of the State, how did these people see proof of their God?
'Sorry to drag you away from your prayers,' he said as Rostov walked in
Rostov shrugged. ‘It’s obviously important.’ There was little need fopr an explanation. Both men knew Rostov’s Rule, as it was known around the building.
The Director pushed a copy of the report across the desk towards his deputy. 'I only received this about an hour ago. It makes chilling reading. You can study the details later. I'll go through it with you first.' He reached over and took a cup, poured himself a tea from the samovar that was on the trolley beside the desk. 'Want one?'
'No thank you.'
'It's about our sleeper network in the West. Looking at the age of some of them, I wouldn't be surprised if they weren't planted before the revolution.'
Rostov smiled at the weak attempt at a joke.
'One of them,' the Director went on, 'was in Canada, Goose Bay. The NATO airbase. Hans Putiloff. His record's in there.' He indicated the file. 'Like most of our people, as you know, we arrange for them to make contact with us once a year. Putiloff used to visit Niagara Falls for an annual holiday, always met one of our people. They never spoke, just verified that all was well. The meeting was scheduled for two weeks ago. Putiloff never appeared. Our agent, as was expected of him, went to Goose Bay to find out why Putiloff hadn't made it. He discovered that Putiloff had died, just outside a hotel where he'd finished a meal. There was no apparent reason for his death. No heart attack, no choking, no obvious cause. He just died.' The Director drank his tea, draining the cup totally. 'In Cannes, last week, a black man, a Senegalese peddler, accidently shot a German tourist. Killed him. The reason he shot him, according to the newspapers and the authorities, was that he was trying to rob him and was surprised by a passing gendarme. He panicked and, while trying to get away, opened fire and shot this Kraut in the confusion.'
The Director poured himself another tea, watched Rostov over the tilted samovar. His deputy revealed little, but the Director sensed his increased interest.
'Sure you won't have some?'
'I'm fine,' Rostov replied, reaching forward to pick up the file.
The Director turned sideways, opened a drawer and took out a steel tube, about nine inches long and as thick as an index finger. He laid it on the table. It was in three sections and he unscrewed them, separated them. The bottom section had a simple firing pin, like a pair of tweezers. From the drawer he took out a small powder charge and put it where the firing pin struck. When connected to the centre section, it caused a small metal lever to move. The Director took a small glass ampoule and slid it into the centre section. Then he screwed the three sections together, rose from his chair and went round the desk to where Rostov sat. He slowly brought the tube up, to no more than eighteen inches from his deputy's face.
'Maybe you'd prefer this?' he stated, pulling the simple trigger. There was an inaudible pop as the powder charge exploded, kicked the middle lever which burst the glass ampoule and released its contents through the end of the tube.
Rostov never moved.
'Stashinksky,' he said.
'Very good. Top of the class,' the Director replied. He was impressed with Rostov's iron self control. He couldn't have been completely sure that the ampoule contained air, instead of the customary and deadly prussic acid. He moved the tube away and returned to his desk.
'Is this what did in the sleeper?'
'Our man in Goose Bay searched the area where Putiloff was killed. He found such a tube. He's an old timer, knew all about Stashinsky. He took it back to Washington, to the embassy, and had it examined. There was no trace of cyanide, but there were marks where a trigger had been. We're convinced it was the method used.'
‘And the German tourist in Cannes. Was he one of ours?’
'No. But this…' he held up the tube he had fired at Rostov. '…was found wrapped in a newspaper near the Senalegese.. Nobody linked it with the death. No, it was only afterwards, when one of our French operative asked some questions, that we found out about the weapon. To the police it was just some rubbish left on the beach. Our man, fortunately, also remembered his early training and recalled Stashinksky.'
'KGB folklore. Sometimes I think it's all we have,' remarked Rostov.