He had put some of his affairs in order, as men do when they are going out on risky business, but had done nothing or taken nothing with him that would lead anyone to suspect that he knew he was never coming back. In fact, he remembered with a touch of amused irony, he had borrowed a hundred dollars from George Van Dorn before he left for Berlin. With interest, he owed Van Dorn about four thousand dollars.
Androv coughed pointedly, and said, “The decision regarding your daughter is entirely yours, Henry. But you should know that by now Karl Roth has poisoned everyone next door.”
Kimberly did not seem moved by this news.
Androv continued, “We chose an extremely rare substance for which no antidote is known in the West. But our Technical Operations Directorate has developed such an antidote. If we get your daughter here within four hours, she can be saved.” He looked at Henry Kimberly. “Please advise me.”
Kimberly said, “What does her fiancé advise?”
Androv smiled slowly, then replied, “Ah, young men are fickle. He no longer loves her, but would not mind if she lived to see the wave of the future wash over her little sand castles. I believe he wants to keep her as a maidservant. He’s a nasty young man.”
Kimberly nodded, then replied, “If you can save her without jeopardizing the mission, or”—he nodded toward Kalin—“or any more men, then do so. But I have no desire to see her. If she is brought here, keep her away from me.”
Androv said, “Yes, it might be upsetting to you if you met. And you have important work to do—”
“Please don’t anticipate my psychological reaction to anything.”
“Forgive me.” Androv regarded Kimberly for some time. After a month under the same roof, Androv could not understand the man’s motivations, much less his wants, needs, fears, or aspirations. Yet Kimberly was in many ways like other Western defectors he’d met in Moscow: strangers in a strange land, stuck in a previous time frame.
Kimberly turned from Androv and addressed Alexei Kalin. “How well do you know this Peter Thorpe?”
Kalin sat up. “I’m his control officer.”
“Do you like him? Or is he, as Viktor suggested, a nasty young man?”
Kalin replied diplomatically, “He is rather… odd. But he can be charming with the ladies.”
Kimberly nodded. “Takes after his natural father. James Allerton was no ladies’ man.” He smiled, then asked Kalin, “Is this the type of man I’d want around me as an aide?”
Kalin’s eyes went to Androv, and it was Androv who answered, “This is the type of man who should be liquidated.” He added quickly, “But you will want to decide for yourself, of course. Let’s have him come up. I’ve also invited some others whom you’ve met only briefly.” He pressed the intercom button. “Send them up.”
Androv looked down the length of the long attic that lay over the central wing of the house. The sloped walls were lined with electronic consoles whose lighting provided most of the room’s illumination. At the far end of the attic, nearly one hundred feet away, a lone man, the communications duty officer, sat hunched over the radio that was in continuous contact with the Kremlin.
Androv said, “Gentlemen, I do not know the precise time of the Stroke, but I think it will be before dawn.” He pointed across the room. “Do you see those two steady green lights?” The two men turned and saw two burning green lights in the distant dimness, like cats’ eyes glowing in the night. Androv continued, his voice heavy, “That is the highest alert status we’ve ever had from Moscow — it means the Stroke is imminent. There’s a third green light that will begin blinking when the final countdown begins. When all three lights are steady green, the Stroke is only minutes away.”
48
The heavy metal door to the attic opened, silhouetting a tall man dressed in a military uniform. He entered, followed by another Russian with swept-back hair and dark glasses, and dressed in a brown business suit. Peter Thorpe came in last. The two Russians stood aside, one of them closing the door.
Androv stood and made the introduction. “Major Henry Kimberly, please meet Major Peter Thorpe.”
Kimberly stood and took Thorpe’s hand. “How do you do?”
Thorpe could not hide his surprise at meeting a man he thought had been dead for forty years, then forced his features into an emotionless mask. He looked into Kimberly’s clear blue eyes and replied, “It’s a pleasure meeting you.”
Androv said offhandedly, “That may be the last pleasure you experience, Thorpe.”
Thorpe looked at Androv, a mixture of anger and apprehension in his eyes, but he said nothing.
Androv addressed Kimberly. “Henry, you may remember these two gentlemen. This is Colonel Mikhail Karpenko of the Eighth Directorate of the KGB, which, as you know, is responsible for satellite communications, ciphers, and diplomatic transmission. This room is his domain.”
Karpenko, a tall, cadaverous bald-headed man with veins popping on his skull, bowed his head stiffly.
Androv continued, “And this is Valentin Metkov, of Department Five of the First Chief Directorate, known unofficially as the Department of Mokrie Dela—Wet Affairs.” Androv turned to Thorpe. “Coincidentally, what your CIA comrades call ‘wet stuff.’ Murder.”
Metkov pursed his thin lips and nodded to himself, as if he were discovering this information for the first time.
Androv motioned Karpenko, Metkov, and Thorpe toward swivel chairs. He saw that Karpenko and Metkov had both glanced at the green lights on the far console. Androv said, “Yes, the time is drawing near.”
Thorpe thought Alexei Kalin, who hadn’t even acknowledged his presence, looked moody and sullen. Thorpe also noticed that Kalin was disheveled and there was a bruise on his cheek. At Langley, Thorpe would have concluded that the man had gotten into a scrape. Here, it was quite possible that Kalin’s boss had had him beaten. These people were crude by the standards Thorpe was accustomed to. He felt an unfamiliar fear grip at his throat.
The talking stopped and Androv leaned back in his chair. He frowned at Thorpe. “Well, Peter, you were told never to come here, but here you are. Ordinarily this would be an inexcusable breach of security. However, as it turns out, tonight is the night of the Stroke, and I may consider a pardon if you can convince me that you’re not an imbecile.”
Thorpe’s face reddened. In all his clandestine meetings with the Russians, it had been he who had been rude, abrasive, and arrogant. His only meeting with Androv, two years before, had ended with Thorpe lecturing Androv about the personal hygiene of one of Androv’s couriers. But now he was in the wolf’s lair, and apparently he’d shown up on the last night of his usefulness. Rotten luck.
Androv said, “For a man with so much to say, you’re very quiet. Perhaps you are an imbecile.”
Thorpe knew that he had to be cautious, without being apologetic. He would not, could not, grovel. He put a tone of annoyance in his voice. “I want to know why the timetable has been moved up without your informing me. I want to know what you intended to do to insure my safety.”
Androv answered, “The timetable has been moved up because of recent events, one of them being what you yourself discovered from West. If you had gone to the party next door as you were supposed to, you would have been approached by Claudia and given the instructions you needed to survive. Is that explanation satisfactory?”