The chairman rose, put a folder marked TOP SECRET under his arm, and marched out of the committee room. Gerald Weinroth popped a white pill into his mouth for his nerves and joined the safari to Eubank’s whiskey oasis.
Monday, September 9
At 6:30 A.M., the lobby of the Metropole Hotel was almost deserted. A middle-aged Russian woman sat behind the reception desk and watched John Brandon indifferently as he struggled with his heavy bags toward the door. Two porters sweeping the floor did not even look up as he passed.
Brandon was in a hurry. His plane was leaving at 8 A.M., and he had forgotten just how long it took to get to Moscow’s international airport.
In front of the hotel, he put his bags down and looked for a taxi. Only one car was on the ramp, a private one, which now rolled suddenly toward the American. The door opened and a smiling man in a lumpy gray suit emerged.
“Mr. Brandon?”
“That’s right.”
“Jump in. I’m going your way.”
The confused American got in with his luggage and the car moved away from the hotel. The driver was pleasant and gregarious.
“You’ve finished your research here?”
Brandon nodded.
“How did it go?” The man had no trace of an accent. His English was impeccable.
Though still puzzled by the stranger’s familiarity, Brandon began to talk about his summer’s stay in the Soviet Union, during which he had spent weeks in the Archives rummaging through records of the Napoleonic campaign against the Russian people in 1812. Brandon had been pleasantly surprised by the cooperation of the Soviet authorities in giving him access to materials no Western scholar had seen before. He knew that he had in his briefcase the ingredients of a book that would establish him in the academic world and guarantee commercial success as well. Brandon told all this to the stranger as the car left the center of Moscow and headed out into the country toward Sheremetyevo Airport.
A few tracks were on the highway, and a few people waited patiently at bus stops along the route. Otherwise, the summer landscape was almost deserted except for the two men conversing animatedly in the little car.
The stranger introduced himself. “I’m Grigor Rudenko, Mr. Brandon, and I work for Tass. I’ve known about your work here, and I thought maybe some day we might get the opportunity to meet. Perhaps this is the best way.” Rudenko smiled almost to himself, as he said this. Brandon wondered suddenly if Rudenko had something more in mind.
Rudenko continued, “You know, I grew up in Philadelphia.” He looked at Brandon for a reaction. John Brandon just stared back through the haze of his cigarette smoke. “My family came to America in the twenties and I went to high school there. But then the war came with Germany, and I guess the old loyalty to the motherland had never died because I decided to fight the Fascists myself. This was all before Pearl Harbor, and so I applied to the government for permission to join the Red Army, and it was granted. I spent the rest of the war in the cavalry and wound up picking my way through the streets of Berlin in 1945.” Brandon was astounded but did not interrupt.
Rudenko lighted a short nonfilter cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“Then instead of going back to America, I stayed on with my adopted countrymen and renounced the evils of capitalism forever.” At this remark, Rudenko laughed uproariously and winked at Brandon. “At the press agency, I have since contributed my talents to keeping the cold war cold.” Rudenko waited for a response.
Brandon was extremely careful by now. All during his time in Russia, he had expected trouble. In talking to people who had studied in the Soviet Union or spent any length of time there on business, he had learned that, not infrequently, the Soviet Committee of State Security, the KGB, tried to compromise foreigners by involving them in unpleasant little intrigues, which ended in blackmail against the individual or international repercussions from a spy scandal. For the first time during his stay, he felt himself in the presence of such a situation. So he picked his words slowly.
“It’s about time the cold war between our countries ended, don’t you think? I must say, I’ve felt a great sadness while in this country at the thought that America and Russia might some day kill each other over one thing or another. It’s a damn shame…”
Rudenko nodded vigorously and added, “I’m glad you feel that way because I, too, am discouraged at the prospects for survival.” Rudenko’s voice was suddenly tense, his manner subdued. He stubbed out his cigarette and watched a sign coming up which pointed the way into the airport. “Brandon, I want you to do me a favor.”
Here it comes, Brandon thought. The overture is ended and the curtain is going up.
As the car slowed down, Rudenko steered it into the parking lot in front of the terminal building. He parked in an area where no cars were within fifty feet.
Turning to his passenger, he said, “When you get to New York, stay long enough to call a man named Karl Richter at the State Department in Washington. Tell him you were contacted by me and that you have something for him.” Rudenko drew a bulky manila envelope from his inside suit pocket, Brandon stared at it in disbelief. He was being offered the bait that would land him in jail. “Make sure you deliver this into his hands within forty-eight hours of your arrival. That’s all you have to do, believe me.” He could see the turmoil in Brandon’s face. “Don’t worry, Brandon. You have nothing to fear. I’m not trying to trick you into something. What I’m giving you is vital to what we just talked about. Richter can act on it and prevent something far bigger than the Cuban missile crisis back in 1962.”
Brandon suddenly said, “No, no, I won’t do it. I’m not the type to get involved in these things.”
“Brandon, don’t talk nonsense. We’re discussing something far more important than either of us. Why do you think I met you this morning? I know you’re afraid that you’ll be stopped by the customs men, but it won’t happen. They know you and won’t touch you. You’re from Winnetka, Illinois. You’re a bachelor. You have two brothers and a sister. Your parents are dead. You were in the U.S. Army during Korea… you were a sergeant in a rifle company. You later went to Purdue, and today you teach history at Lake Forest College. You’re clean as far as the KGB is concerned. You have no ties to the U.S. intelligence community. Correct?”
Brandon nodded in wonder at this verbal dossier.
Rudenko looked at his watch. “You have about forty minutes to plane time. Take this envelope, please.” His voice was urgent, almost pleading. Brandon reached for it and thought, Jesus, here I go into the bottomless pit. He took the package, put it into his jacket, and opened the door and started to get out. Rudenko leaned over and repeated, “Karl Richter at the State Department. He’ll know what to do.” Rudenko smiled and put out his hand. “Relax, Mr. Brandon, and thanks for trusting me.” Brandon shook his hand perfunctorily. He wished the man had never come into his life.
He took his luggage on into the building. At the customs desk, he filled out a form declaring how much money he had spent in the Soviet Union. He also changed his few Russian rubles into dollars. Then he brought his baggage and the declaration to the desk. His luggage was weighed and put on a pile to be taken to the Pan American plane. It was not inspected.
In the waiting room, Brandon paced up and down, waiting for the call to board. When it came, he went down a long corridor to a final checkpoint, where Russian soldiers examined boarding passes and passports. The phone at the desk kept ringing constantly, and, each time, Brandon wondered if the listener would turn and beckon him into oblivion. The minutes passed. Then the gate was opened, and Brandon and a crowd of passengers were led down a ramp to a waiting bus. Out on the runway, he saw the familiar blue Pam Am emblem rising from the tail of a Boeing 747 in the September sunshine.