; No true. Bogdan Stashinksky had been one of the KGB's most notorious assassins. He was nicknamed the 'Murder Machine.' A Ukrainian by birth, we used him to spy on other Ukranians. The main target of his observance was Lev Rebet, an exiled Ukranian. We asked Stashinksy to assassinate him. The weapon we chose was simple and effective. Easily concealed, it also left no trace as to the cause of death.’
'From what I remember, Stashinksky was a lucky amateur,' added Rostov.
The Director was of the old school, remembered Bogdan Stashinksky and the furore his defection to the West caused. It was as the Berlin Wall was going up in 1961, that Stashinksky caught the electric train in East Berlin at Schonhauser Allee station and got off at Gesundbrunnen station in West Berlin.
'I met him,' the Director recalled. 'In the OKR.' The Otdely Kontrrazvedki was the widely feared counter-espionage branch of the KGB that took over from SMERSH, or Smyert Shpionam which translates into "death to spies". 'He was a frightened sort of fellow. A misfit. I don't know how he ever got his reputation. Of course, the Americans never found out whether he was a plant or a genuine defector.' The Director laughed as Rostov opened the report and flicked through it, stopping at the file photograph of Stashinksky, a dark haired, attractive man.
'Is he dead?' Rostov asked.
'Probably. Changed his name so many times we lost track of him. Anyway, I can't see him doing all this. Bit old for that sort of fieldwork now, even if he is alive.'
'What about the German, Kushmann?'
'No link with us. Apart from the method used to kill him.'
'But he was shot.'
'But I think he was already dead. The blackie panicked when the gendarme came after him. That's when he drew his gun. I think he'd already killed the German with the Stashinksky tube. It had already been fired when we found it.' The Director watched for Rostov's response and was quietly pleased when he saw his deputy nod in agreement. 'There was also an American with the group. A top level scientist. The Yanks rushed him straight back to America immediately after the shooting. I presume they think he was the target.'
'Have research come up with any ideas?'
'Nothing. Even though I don't trust the Americans, I can't see what they'd get out of this.'
'And there're no links at all?'.
'Nothing obvious. Apart from the fact that they're all Germans.'
'Putiloff had quite a record. Dachau. War crimes.' Rostov held up the file he had been skimming through. 'He could've been turned.'
'He wasn't a serious operative. If he'd lived here he'd have been on a pension. At least his death will save some of our foreign currency budget.'.
Rostov smiled and stood up and placed the report under his arm. 'It's a starting point.'
'Whatever. But this has to be resolved. After all, if they're destroying our sleeper network, that means they've got access to our most confidential information.'
'It'll take priority over everything.'
'Good. At least we've something on our hands that smells interesting. Different from guarding food supplies and helping the police marshal crowds. Our leaders sometimes forget why the Cheka was first formed.'
'We live in strange times.'
'I may decide to go through our diplomatic people in Washington.'
'Just don't upset the Yanks.'
'Even if it's them?'
'We'll worry about that when we get there.'
In the distance, muted and faint, a fire warning bell started to wail.
'Bloody drills!' snapped the Director. 'Too many of them. If it is the real thing I think I'd rather sit here and fry.'
Rostov chuckled and turned to leave the office.
'Merry Christmas,' said the Director. Rostov was surprised as he turned back. 'Isn't that what you Christians say?'
'Yes. In two days' time.' He smiled, the Director was relaxing, becoming his old self. 'And merry Christmas to you, too.'
The two men looked at each other, an understanding and warmth between them.
'I'm sorry I pulled you away from your prayers,' said the Director. 'But this is important. I don't like the feel of it.'
Rostov nodded and left the room. As he walked along the corridor, there was a stream of people rushing in all directions as the alarm clanged on from a lower floor. He decided to ignore it and went to his office. His secretary was out, probably checking to see if there was a real fire or this was simply another interminable safety drill.
He went into his inner office and sat down, started to read the report. It said little more than the Director had, gave detailed information on Stashinksky and the two dead operatives. The German, originally from Dresden and now living in Berlin, was an important corporate lawyer who was on vacation with his friends. There was little else, nothing that hung it all together.
He leant back, the fire bell still wailing in the distance, and considered the matter. After a while, when the bell finally stopped, he called his secretary on the intercom. She still hadn't returned. He then dialed the switchboard and asked to be put through to Dimitri Sorge of the Russian Embassy in Washington. He told the operator to ring Sorge's home and ensure it was a clean line, was not tapped by any outside agency. He waited for five minutes before he was connected.
'Dimitri. Sorry to ring you so early.' He knew it was only three in the morning, but this was something that couldn't wait.
When he had finished talking he hung up and went back to the report, rechecked to see if there was anything he had missed the first time.
'Didn't realise you were back,' said his secretary, surprised to find him there as she returned to the office.
'I had to see the Director.'
'Tea?'
'Good idea.'
'I was out because of the fire bell.'
'Another drill?'
'No. It was real this time. An electrical fire.'
'What do you expect in an old building like this? Where?'
'On the fourth floor.'
'Anyone hurt?'
'No. But the room was destroyed before the firemen put it out. A small room. In the filing section.'
'What filing section?' Rostov was alarmed suddenly.
'The old ones. Nothing important. I checked because I knew you'd want to know. Nobody's been in there for years. Trouble is, it's the next batch of information that was to be processed onto the computer.'
'What files were destroyed?'
'All the post war ones. On agents and other counter-intelligence information from the end of the War up to 1956.'
Ch. 10
Nothing. Just blank after blank.
Billie stood at the window, her eyes smarting after hours of concentration in front of the computer screen. The bright sun, harsh in its winter clarity added to her discomfiture and she turned back into the small room that was her office.
There was nothing new she could add to what Langley already knew. Which was nothing. An absolute zero.
She'd worked her way through the indexes, run all the relevant facts through her programme and still come up with nothing. No links. Nothing between the few facts that tied Reindeer and a contaminated computer. Three days and nothing more than sore eyes.
She walked back to her desk and sat down again. The taste of a cigarette suddenly filled her throat and she wished she had one. After giving it up for all these years, and she still yearned for that dry bitter taste when the pressure was on.
The phone rang and she reached over for it.
'Yes.'.
'Billie?'
She recognised Tucker's voice. 'Hello, Phil.' They were on first name terms now.
'How you doing?'
'Not good.' She sensed the disappointment in her own voice.